The Desert Games
by evaschon1793
Summary: A Rat Patrol fic written in a Hunger Games alternate universe. All our boys, including Dietrich, will have to fight it out in the sixty-sixth Hunger Games.
1. Reapings

Tully Pettigrew stared at the matchstick in his hand.

Ordinarily, you would've seen it in his mouth, but everything was different today.

Today was Reaping day.

At the moment, he was thinking about whether or not the matchstick was worth saving, as he did all the others. A sleepless night, followed by a restless early morning had nearly shredded the matchstick. Since waste in District 12, of any kind, was akin to heresy he'd always been in the habit of saving all his matchsticks once they were 'chewed out' as he termed it. The wood had a pleasant pine flavour, although too much chewing would erase it. But he kept the things in his mouth for much more than their flavour. The sensation of chewing, plus the bits of wood that fell off often fooled his mind and stomach into thinking he was eating something.

When hunger was a constant scourge, you would use anything to trick yourself out of it.

And matchsticks were Tully's way of tricking the squeezing hand of starvation.

"Tully!" a voice called. With a jolt, he was brought back to his surroundings. He was on the tiny porch of the equally tiny home he shared with his mom and seven siblings. The sun was up now, hot and blazing, and in less than two hours the entire population of District 12 would be gathered in the village square for the Reaping. There would be just enough time to clean and dress everyone appropriately and make the hike to the square.

Tully stood up from his spot, and entered the house.

It would be a hike, because their house was about as far as you could get from the main part of the village. And for good reason. A family had lived in it not so long ago, and then died from a deadly, infectious disease. Everyone avoided the house, but it was the only place Tully's family could afford. None of them had gotten sick, surprisingly enough.

Or maybe not so surprising. After all, they brewed illegal liquor to sell so that the family wouldn't starve to death, and maybe the fumes from the stuff kept infection at bay. Tully never drank any, and wouldn't allow any of his siblings to either. The drink was sold at the also-illegal black market – the Hob – by his mom, Ripper. Of course, that wasn't her real name, but for as long as he could remember, it's what people had called her and he didn't even know what she was really called.

"Tully?"

"I'm here," he said, breaking into the small, cramped kitchen. Already a tub was on the floor, warm water swishing around in it. Since his mom only had one arm – the result of a mine accident, where she was the only one to make it out alive – she needed his help even more than most mothers with several children. He didn't mind. It was still two years before he'd be old enough to work in the mines and bring in real money, so he helped in every other way he could.

Like the tessera.

By putting his name in the Reaping bowl multiple times to provide grain and oil for each family member, there were now about sixty pieces of paper with 'Tully Pettigrew' written on them. He tried not to think about it, but the fact remained. If he hadn't taken out tessera every year, his family – and himself – would've been dead long ago. And despite the fact that it lessened the amount of odds in his favour, he wouldn't have done it any other way. If he wasn't reaped this year, he'd continue to do it.

Tully knelt to the floor and pulled the youngest boy – Amos, a baby less than two years old – over to him and carefully lowered him into the tub. Amos slapped the water with his hands and giggled. He repeated the gesture dozens of times during the next two minutes while Tully struggled to clean him up without getting drenched – a useless endeavour at best. By the end of the bath, Tully's shirt and hair were soaking wet.

He shrugged and pulled Amos out of the bath.

Ripper was already there with a kettle of hot water for the tub, since it had both cooled off and depleted after Amos' turn. Then, she took Amos from Tully's arms and set about dressing him. Tully also helped bathe Jake, the five year old member of the family, but the rest were old enough to do it themselves.

With a groan of cramped muscles, Tully stood up from his kneeling position. It would be a while before he could take a bath, anyway, and there were always things to do. Might as well do them now, since he had no guarantee he'd be back this evening. Tidy the living room, check to see that all the wires and apparatus for making the white liquor were clean, neat, and hidden, and hold Amos when he started to squall.

"That's alright," Ripper said, taking Amos back. "I can hold him."

"I might not get another chance," Tully said softly.

He hadn't meant to make her cry, but her face twisted in an expression of grief he could only remember seeing a few times. Once, when she found out that her husband had been killed in the same mine blast that took her arm. And at his first Reaping. But that was all. Now, with two children eligible for the Reaping, and the very real fear that Tully – or one of the others – might not make it back that night, her calm demeanour had cracked again.

With Amos between them, it was difficult to give her a hug, but Tully did it anyway.

Amos squirmed between them in protest, but neither of them paid him any heed. Ripper cried and Tully's eyes stung as well, but he pushed his own grief and fear to the very back of his heart, locked it, and hid the key. He couldn't let go enough to throw it away, but at least it was out of sight. Seeing his mom cry scared him, since she was ordinarily so strong, but if she was emotional, he couldn't afford to be. Someone needed to see the family through to the end of today, and if it wasn't her, then it would be him.

"It'll be okay, Mom," he said. From where he stood, he could see several of his siblings grouped around the living room entranceway, and he shooed them away with a glance. Now was not the time. "None of the others have taken out tessera. You know I wouldn't let them. Alice only has her name in there once. If they pick anyone-"

He didn't finish the thought, but she knew what he would've said anyway.

_If they pick anyone from this family, it'll be me. _

The hot sun had given way to cloud cover and the threat of rain hovering over all their heads by the time everyone was at the town square. The change in atmosphere felt ominous, and Tully had forgotten to bring a matchstick, which made him feel vulnerable. It was silly, of course, since a matchstick couldn't protect him and he certainly didn't view the things as good luck talismans, but he missed the comfort of having something between his teeth.

_If I get reaped, I'll probably have a knife between my teeth soon._

The family had to split up now. Those eligible for the Reaping would go into their different age groups – twelve, thirteen, and so on – and the rest would mill around in the section for family members and those who had no family and just came to the Reaping to lay bets and joke around. Some of them were there even now, and Tully's jaw tightened. For the families who had an invested interest in the Reaping, this was no joke, and no matter their excuse, it was poor taste to laugh at other people's anguish.

From what he could see, most everyone from District 12 was gathered in the square, which was good because from the sun's position, it was almost two o'clock. Sure enough, the moment the mayor stepped out onto the platform, along with the delegate from the Capitol – a young woman, whose name Tully couldn't remember – and several Peacekeepers guarding both of them.

The mayor launched into a long-winded speech about the rebellion, the new districts, and the Capitol's generosity, but instead of tuning it as he'd done every year before, Tully focused on the words – if not their meaning – because if he didn't, all he could think about was the sixty entries and what it would mean for his family if he was reaped. And too many of those thoughts would drive him insane in no time.

Still, the speech had to end sometime, and when it did...

The real event of the day, the Reaping, had come.

As soon as the Capitol delegate took the stage, there was a difference in the crowd. Uncomfortable shifting, then a tense silence that seeped into every crack of the square. If the young woman was disconcerted by the death-like silence, she didn't show it. Her smile was firmly fixed on her whiter-than-chalk face, the absence of colour set off even more by her bright green hair and eyebrows.

"Happy Hunger Games!" she piped out cheerily. "And may the odds be ever in your favour!"

Tully's throat clenched up.

"Ladies first," she continued, tripping merrily along the platform to the huge glass bowl that held thousands of papers with hundreds of different names on them. There was one scrap that had 'Alice Pettigrew' on it, but Tully refused to think about it. The chances of her being reaped were so slim, he refused to think about it.

"The female tribute from District 12 is...Livia Wate."

There was a faint scream from the fourteens' section, but Tully hardly heard it. Relief was rushing over him in such gigantic amounts that he could hardly breath. It wasn't Alice. It wasn't Alice. He didn't even know who the girl who'd been reaped was. Whoever she was, he felt sorry for her family, but his regret was mostly overshadowed by his relief. Of course, Alice had never been at much risk to begin with, but there'd still been a chance.

There was always a chance, for good or bad.

Livia Wate came up to the platform, and then the delegate pranced over to the boy's bowl.

Tully stood up straighter, his eyes fixed on the bowl, the delegate, and the piece of paper she selected. His breathing remained even, but inside his heart sped faster and faster. On the outside, he was calm. On the inside, he was in danger of falling apart.

_Just read it. Please._

And, finally, after a dramatic pause, she did.

"And the male tribute from District 12 is...Tully Pettigrew."

That was that, then.

Inside, he was breaking into a million pieces.

Outside, he walked slowly up to the platform. The steps seemed to take hours to climb, and once he was on the platform, he felt dizzy from the height and the thoughts churning inside his brain. All through the few closing remarks and his handshake with Livia, only two thoughts revolved through his mind.

_Who will take care of my family?_

_I don't have a mentor._

Ripper could sell the liquor and bring in money that way, but the mines were off limits for all of them, and without him taking out tessera, they would starve. Unless Alice took out tessera just as he had. He hated the thought, since that was almost certainly what had gotten him reaped, but there was no other way. Perhaps if he had more than a few minutes to say goodbye, he could think of something, but that wasn't possible.

Tully gritted his teeth together.

He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't beg or scream or curse as he'd seen other tributes do over the years.

If he was going into the arena, he'd be calm. He'd be strong. And he would dredge up whatever bravery he felt possible and go into the Games with the aim of-of what? Of winning? There had only been one District 12 winner in the sixty years, or so, of the Hunger Games, and she was long dead. Then, if he wasn't going into win, he would aim to die with dignity.

Not pleading and begging and sniveling.

Dignity.

:::::

District 1's Reaping was the last one of Reaping day. It was the wealthiest and most powerful district, and President Snow always liked to make as big a splash as possible among the Capitol people, so he saved the best for last. Unlike most of the other districts, District 1 was a treat for the eyes, and the mad-cap volunteering that always came at each Reaping made the district the most entertaining one to watch. Every year there were at least twenty volunteers, and fights always broke out over who would be allowed to go to the Games.

And Mark Hitchcock was debating on whether or not he would be part of that particular entertainment this year.

His mother's thoughts were as clear as she could possibly make them.

"You're not going to volunteer like those other hooligans," Gema Hitchcock told him just that morning as she straightened his tie with her fake, manicured nails. "There are only ten or so entries in the boy's bowl for you. You won't get Reaped, and you're not going to volunteer, either." With a sniff, she pulled his tie a little tighter and patted it into place.

Hitch had kept his thoughts to himself, but now, on his way to the town square in his mother's high-class car, he allowed them to slip through the cracks of his mother's constant flow of chatter.

Out of all the boys in District 1, he would probably have one of the best chances of winning. His father the mayor – who wasn't with them, since he was already at the Justice Building, probably sweating over the speech he'd have to make – had enrolled him in the finest school District 1 had to offer. Besides teaching the usual subjects, it also gave an excellent education in fighting and weaponry. In secret, though, and only if you were willing to pay a pretty penny.

He'd often wondered why his father would go to so much trouble and expense to educate him and turn him into a Career tribute, and then not protest when Gema had told Hitch time and time again not to volunteer. Perhaps he was under Gema's thumb, just as Hitch was.

Hitch stared out the window, watching the passing scenery go by without giving it any thought.

At first it had been easy not to volunteer, simply because he didn't want to. He'd been terrified his first year, nearly stiff with fear that his name would be selected. But when nothing happened and he'd been sent to school, he'd relaxed a little. In a few months, he could hit the target right in the heart every single time with both arrows and knives, although he was better with the former.

The Victory Tour when he was thirteen had also helped change his mind around from terror to interest, since that was the year one of District 1's own had won. He watched the party – attended it, too – the speech, and the delirious joy coming from the crowd and envied the victor for just a moment. Of course, he had no delusions about what the arena would be like. Killing people wasn't the way he wanted things to go, but if he was Reaped – or if he volunteered – that would be a part of the victory too.

And now, at fifteen, he felt he was ready.

"Nearly there," Gema said, breaking into his thoughts.

She reached over and took his hand.

"Remember, Mark. Don't do anything foolish."

Rebellion welled up inside him. All the boys at school called him a 'mama's boy' and other choice insults – even if he was the mayor's son – and it was starting to get under his skin. At first he'd let the words slide off, but after thinking long and hard about it, he began to realize that he was a mama's boy. He loved his mother, but even he had to admit that she could be overpowering and overbearing more often than not.

Winning the Games was the only way he could think of to prove himself.

And to win them, he'd have to be Reaped.

He now wished desperately that his name wouldn't be selected, because if it was, entry to the Games would be snatched away from him in a moment. Volunteering was his only chance. He glanced over at Gema. Her eyes were on the Victory Square, now only a minute or so away. Her face was calm. She had no doubts that he would disobey her, and why would he? He'd never done it before, so why would he start now?

Hitch swallowed hard, and riffled through his pockets for a stick of gum.

"Oh, Mark, put that disgusting thing away!"

Hitch dropped the gum back into his pocket and glared at his reflection in the glass. He couldn't very well make at that face at his mother, so he contented himself with contorting his features in the smooth reflective surface. His taste buds ached for a strip of wild berry gum, but he told himself to wait. Once he was in the holding area with the other fifteen-year-olds, he could break out a pack.

The car drew to a smooth halt, and Gema was already out the door. "Come, come! Hurry!"

Hitch opened his side and folded himself up and out, stretching his cramped legs. Even a ten minute drive in the low-slung luxury vehicle could block off his circulation for a few moments. He just hoped that his legs wouldn't tremble when he went forward to volunteer. He didn't want anyone to think he was nervous or afraid. Because he wasn't, and showing it would be the first step toward proof.

_Crackle._

Already his hand was in his pocket, searching for a stick of gum.

His mother didn't like it because once, when he'd blown one of his bubbles, it had exploded outwards and splattered all over the expensive evening dress she'd been wearing. It had never come fully out, and she'd had to trash the dress. Hitch had apologized, but she'd banned gum chewing for the longest time. It had only been recently that she'd allowed him to start up again – but never in her presence.

With an appreciative sigh as the berry flavour exploded in his mouth, Hitch melted into the growing crowd of fifteen-year-olds and was swallowed up. He spotted Dex a few feet away, and tried to go in the other direction, but the crowd was too thick. It was much easier to get in than to get out. In a moment, Dex spotted him – it was almost as if he'd been looking specifically for Hitch – and wormed his way over. Hitch clenched his teeth on the gum and waited.

Even though Hitch was no shrimp, Dex towered over him, something he never let Hitch forget.

With a mocking touch, he reached over and ruffled Hitch's blond hair, as though Hitch was some little adorable baby. Hitch slapped the hand away and chewed his gum for all he was worth. He'd long since learned that a little bit of gum helped him keep his temper, since the violent chewing motions gave his anger some sense of outlet. Still, Dex tried even the gum's patience.

"Can't believe mama's boy is even allowed in here," Dex said loudly, showing off for his friends. "I mean, why would that mama of his let him associate with the likes of us? He might get..."-he poked Hitch in the side, hard-"...hurt." A burst of laughter met both his words and action.

Hitch chewed harder.

"Your mom let you chew gum again? Isn't that sweet?"

A thought darted through Hitch's mind and he acted on it immediately.

With a little effort and some air, he blew a bubble, all the while staring levelly at Dex. He opened his mouth, drew the gum in again, and blew another one. For about fifteen seconds he kept doing this, until Dex got the idea that it could possibly be some kind of insult. He drew in closer to Hitch, anger showing red on his face. "Listen, you little-"

Gum exploded all over Dex's face, and Hitch forced his way into the crowd.

He couldn't keep the grin off his face as he ran. Sure, he'd lost his gum, but who cared when you could get revenge like that? Dex was taller and faster than him, though, so he was relieved when the settling of the crowd an instant later indicated that his father had taken to the platform. He twisted around and found a spot where he could watch the proceedings, even if he was uncomfortably wedged between two people.

At least he was close to the platform.

Close enough to be the first one up there as a volunteer.

The girl tribute had been reaped, and duly replaced by a volunteer – Hitch couldn't even remember who had finally carried off the honour – and now the Capitol delegate was clicking her way in impossibly high heels across the platform toward the boy's bowl. She looked a little more bizarre – with bright orange skin and pink hair - than most people from the Capitol, but Hitch didn't really care either way, since many of the rich in District 1 adopted the Capitol fashions as well.

In a trice, she had the slip of paper in her hand and was going back to the microphone.

Hitch popped a bubble, his way of keeping calm at the moment.

He wouldn't have been at all surprised if his mother had quietly arranged to keep his name out of the Reaping bowl – there were rumours of such things happening in the richer districts – but he couldn't keep his heart from speeding up and adrenaline filling him.

"The male tribute from District 1 is...Dexter Gold."

Before Dex was even on the platform, Hitch was off running, not even giving his choice a second thought.

"I volunteer as tribute! I volunteer as tribute!"

Dex beat him up to the platform by only a couple steps and as Hitch brushed past him to make a formal request to his father – since he was the mayor – he noticed that Dex hadn't been able to get all the gum off. It was a small victory. If he could get his request in first, he'd have achieved two victories.

But already a surge of young people were making their way up to the platform.

Hitch put on a burst of speed, and reached his father a second before another boy did.

"I volunteer as tribute, in the place of Dexter Gold," he said loudly.

His father winced. Hitch wasn't sure if it was from the volume, or the fact that he was volunteering, but he felt a twinge of remorse. He didn't even try to find his mother in the crowd. Seeing her face would probably loosen his resolve and he'd enter the Capitol in an agony of remorse, instead of the confidence he would need to win.

The mayor shook his head at the other boy who'd arrived a second too late and held up Hitch's hand.

"Mark Hitchcock has volunteered to enter the Hunger Games in Dexter Gold's place."

There was a wild bout of applause, full of cheers and whistles. It was always like that in District 1, but Hitch felt a rush of pride fill him. He shook the girl tribute's hand, and then entered the familiar territory of the Justice Building. As he stepped through the door, a vague thought entered his head that he might never see the Justice Building again, but he brushed it aside.

He'd volunteered to win, not to lose.

:::::

In District 6, every family who was fortunate enough to have one was glued to their telephone.

Those who didn't tremblingly awaited a special visit from the Peacekeepers.

Hans Dietrich's family was one of the luckier ones who didn't have to sit around in the deafening silence, waiting all night for a sharp knock on the door that indicated their child had been reaped. The Reaping was tomorrow, at two o'clock, but because of the size of District 6, name drawings were made the night before. That way, the city could ensure that the new tribute was in the crowd of people in the square when his name was called.

The mayor would sit in his comfortable home, and randomly select two slips of paper – one with a boy's name and one with a girl's name. Of course there were witnesses to make sure everything was done decently, but throughout the year, people still tried to keep on the mayor's good side. Witnesses could be bribed, after all. After the selection had been made, the 'lucky' new tribute's families would receive a phone call or, if they weren't rich enough to own one, a visit from the Peacekeepers.

By common consent, the Dietrich family sat together in the kitchen.

Dietrich's mother, Ilsa Dietrich, chewed her fingernails in silence.

Albert Dietrich, Hans' step-father, watched the phone with a stare that was more of a glare.

The two littlest children, Rudy and Lisbeth, were asleep upstairs. They were in no danger of being reaped. Only Dietrich, at seventeen, was under that threat. He sat quietly in one of the hard, straight backed chairs gathered around the kitchen table. His thumb ran mindlessly around and around a bit of knotted wood grain on the table, but his thoughts were far away from the kitchen.

There were dozens of other things he could be doing at the moment – tethering down the mayor's hovercraft, as he did every night, checking the inventory of nuts and bolts in the shed outside, also something he did every night, or stay up late working over the faulty trucks that had been sent to his father just this morning – but, no. He was sitting in the kitchen, playing to the Capitol's anthem once again.

It was pathetic, really.

He liked Albert well enough, though he would never do anything to replace his real father who'd lost both legs and consequently his life in an accident with a truck, but the man was too much of a wimp to ever do any real good. He followed whatever the Capitol said and never questioned them. Dietrich dug his thumb nail into the rough wood and shook his head. Comparing that to his father, who had rebelled against the Capitol in a hundred different ways, he found little respect inside him for Albert.

Even if that rebellion had gotten his father killed. The official report had said a truck accident, but Dietrich knew the Capitol well enough – had known it well enough even back then – to guess that the accident hadn't really been an accident at all. His father's latest 'crime' had been scouting around District 6, finding any stray animals that had somehow gotten over the fence, killing them, and distributing them to poorer neighbours. Any attempt at self sustenance was severely punished by the Capitol, but Dietrich couldn't blame his father for doing so.

If only the people in the Capitol could see what he saw on a daily basis.

Children, wandering around in the streets, with no parents and no food.

Men, dead on a regular basis because they didn't have the proper tools to repair a truck or hovercraft.

Women, sitting at home, listless and unable to do any work while their children begged them for food.

No, he didn't blame his father for what he'd done.

Dietrich shifted in his seat, trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable spot. He sighed heavily, more from his thoughts than the hardness of the chair or the Reaping looming over all their heads. There were probably about twenty entries with his name on them. He'd taken out tessera for his family a few weeks after his father's death, but once Ilsa had married Albert, they had no need to do that anymore. Still, his name was in there extra times and they all knew it.

The phone jangled. Ilso flinched and burst into tears.

Albert stared at it dumbly.

Dietrich's blood froze, but he picked up the phone anyway. If he didn't, no-one would, and reprisals would be harsh. He glared hard at the phone for a moment, letting it ring once more, and then answered it. "Yes?"

"This is the Dietrich household?"

They knew it was.

"Yes."

"We are pleased to inform you that your son, Hans Dietrich, has been selected through a random draw overseen by the mayor to be the next male tribute to represent District 6." The voice was female, hard and cold, without a touch of sympathy. "Make sure that he is in the town square at two o'clock sharp, tomorrow. That is all." A click sounded from the other end of the line and a buzzing sound filled his ear.

_That's it. That's the end of it all._

Dietrich cleared his throat. Both Ilsa and Albert were looking at him.

"It's me," he said, voice devoid of any emotion. He couldn't feel anything.

"Oh, Hans-" Ilsa began, but he stood up and left the room. Now his entire body trembled and he didn't know where to go. Unless-Dietrich stopped in the middle of the entranceway, hand on his jacket. He knew for a fact that more than one tribute slip was selected, just in case one of them failed to show up or-or-took his or her life.

For a moment, he entertained the thought, and then shook his head.

_Forget it,_ he told himself fiercely. _Do you really want to bring the Games on some other boy's head?_

No, of course not.

Or did he?

Dietrich shook his head. He was too confused to do anything at the moment, except what he knew best. And that was fixing truck engines until they ran like molten gold. At least until a couple weeks ago when he'd started to slightly tamper with any vehicle he could get his hand on. There had always been a team of workers working on the trucks or hovercrafts, and the damages had been slight – only minor inconveniences at most – but it still filled Dietrich with a small sense of pride.

And what better way to deal with Reaping news than to destroy some more Capitol property?

"And the male tribute from District 6 is...Hans Dietrich."

Sympathetic glances from his friends surrounded him, but Dietrich ignored them all. He gritted his teeth and walked up to the platform, shook hands with the female tribute, and left for the Justice Building and then the train station beyond.

As he walked, his thoughts were not on the various trappings that would attend the Hunger Games.

They were on the games themselves.

This was surprising, since most tributes tried to forget where they were headed, and just enjoy the luxurious meals, clothes, and heaps of attention they all got. But Dietrich wasn't interested in any of that. He wanted to reach the arena as fast as possible, because once there, he could work at really rebelling against the Capitol. Maybe even inducing the other districts to rise up. If he was going to die anyway, at least he could do something meaningful with the last few weeks of life he had left.

Starting with the trucks, and going forward.


	2. Parade

Tully stood slightly off to the side, away from the other tributes that milled about, talking in loud, excited voices. He wasn't excited and he didn't want to make any friends. Making friends was the last thing he wanted to do, considering where all of them would end up. So he leaned against the wall, eyes half-closed, waiting until he actually had to do something to, well, do something. There was no use in getting nervous.

"Pretty good costumes, huh?"

He opened his eyes to see his district partner, Livia, standing in front of him.

He shrugged. They were adequate, he supposed, but clothes had never been an important part of his life, and they were certainly the least of his worries at the moment. Whatever their stylist wanted to do was fine with him. He was glad that Livia was happy with them, since girls seemed to spend a lot more time on their appearance, but other than that, he could've cared less.

"Oh, come _on_," she said. "Don't tell me you're not at least a little bit happy about them."

"I won't," Tully said. He closed his eyes again.

"They're gorgeous," she gushed. "I mean, where on earth did Portia find black diamonds, of all things. I tell you, it's genius. All those other years our tributes have been dressed in those awful coal miner costumes, stuff like that, but this year, everyone will remember us." She giggled a little and Tully heard the slight swish of her costume as she walked off.

He shifted uncomfortably.

Underneath all of Livia's gushing and giggling, there was something else.

He couldn't put a finger on it, but it made him wary. Unsure.

_Probably the type to go wild when the gong sounds._

Not that it mattered to him. In fact, if anyone was going to win, he'd want it to be her, since her winning would mean food and riches for District 12 for an entire year. He had no illusions about his chances of winning. They were nothing. Neither he nor Livia had a mentor, which meant getting sponsors would be next to impossible. Well, Livia was certainly pretty enough to grab one or two but him? Wasn't happening. Who in their right mind would sponsor someone like him?

A voice called out across the holding pen. "Two minutes, tributes!"

Tully opened his eyes and saw all the other tributes hopping into their chariots, making sure their costumes weren't caught in the spokes or underneath the main body, and steadying themselves for what would literally be the ride of a lifetime. He pushed himself off the wall he leaned against and sauntered over to his and Livia's chariot. Portia was already there, gesturing wildly with her hand to get them in line.

With a little hop, both of them were up and steadied in the chariot.

"Smiles," Portia reminded them. "They'll love you."

The gates burst open and District 1's chariot slid neatly out, followed closely by 2, 3, and so on. Tully tensed up ever so slightly, and gripped the side of his chariot. He saw District 6's chariot leaving out of the corner of his eye, only it wasn't really a chariot. There were no horses, and the chariot was hovering slightly above the ground, and it was only when he remembered that District 6 was transportation that he understood.

Then their chariot started moving.

He took a deep breath and waited for the light that would burst upon them.

:::::

At the head of the parade, Hitch felt fabulous.

His costume was a bit stiff, owing to the amount of jewels that his stylist had fastened on the front – it was literally dripping with the gems – but other than that, it was one of the best moments of his life. The screams from the crowd, the bright lights on either side of the chariot runway, and the heady scents and smells breaking through the air all combined to give him an unforgettable experience.

Gigantic screens showed the tribute's progress, and even though he was in the very front, he could see all the others come out one by one. District 2 was impressive enough, dressed in a shimmering fabric that resembled granite, with headpieces of what looked like tooled rock. Right behind them, District 3 sparkled with costumes that appeared to be made entirely out of wires, meshed together tastefully.

Hitch was distracted from the next few by the pulsating anthem and increased screaming of the crowd as more and more tributes joined the parade. He closed his eyes for just a moment, to drink the occasion in with his other senses and emerged with a grin on his face. No matter what came afterwards, this moment was worth it.

He was finally someone in the world of Panem.

:::::

Right before the parade, Dietrich's stylist had explained to him that, while he would only be wearing a simple black tunic, his chariot would be the real _tour de force_. "District 6 is all about transportation," she'd said. "Why dress you up in some ridiculous costume, when we can transform the vehicle you'll be riding in? It'll add a nice touch of rebellion, since I don't believe something like this has ever been done before."

_How appropriate._

Dietrich was sure that his mentor, Shaft, had told the stylist that the angle he'd be playing up this time was 'the rebel', but it was still ironic. A hovercraft chariot instead of horse-drawn might not be the boldest statement against the Capitol, but it heartened Dietrich anyway. And ever since he'd arrived in the Capitol, the slightest bit of rebellious encouragement had boosted his spirits in the way nothing else could.

Now, in the parade, the shouts of the crowd reached a feverish pitch as his chariot came into view.

_Good. They'll be watching me more closely now._

Hopefully, 'they' would include the districts as well.


	3. Training

Tully was late to training.

When he entered the main training room – there were several smaller rooms off to the sides where you could practice with different weapons – nearly everyone was already there, throwing knives, learning about poisonous plants, or learning how to make deadly snares for both small game and people.

He stood in the entrance for a moment, watching everyone.

The Careers were all together, laughing and playing games with their weapons as though this wasn't the most serious time of their life. The other district's tributes were working at varying skill levels, but the Careers had been and always would be the ones to watch out for. Despair washed over Tully the longer he observed the tributes from 1, 2, and 4. The rest of them were hopelessly outclassed.

"Better get started, right?" Livia said from behind him.

Tully cleared his throat. "Yeah."

He stumbled into the room, tripping over the slightly raised entrance, and nearly fell. He could sense everyone's eyes on him and he bit his bottom lip. _Let them think whatever they want. Who cares?_ He was determined not to complain, but the whole thing would've been much easier with a mentor. The fact that District 12 almost never had a victor didn't mean that the Capitol had to throw them into the Games without any help.

Without a mentor, neither he nor Livia had sponsors.

Without sponsors, they had close to zero chance of survival.

Looking around, Tully couldn't see any weapon he knew how to use. There were the usual knives, bows, spears, and axes, but he hadn't had any practice with any of them. He'd never even held a weapon except for the slingshots he'd made over the years, and there certainly weren't any slingshots in the training room as far as he could see.

Livia nudged him. "Should we stick together or split up?"

"Whatever you want to do," Tully said. He meant it. Livia might not have been the most trustworthy person, but she seemed more at ease and in control with this whole thing than he did.

"Split up," she said at once. "We can cover more ground that way."

Tully stared at her for a moment.

"What? We're allies, right?" Her question was innocent enough, but there was an undertone of steel that said "_I say we're allies, and if you don't agree, I'm going to make your life so miserable you'll be begging me to kill you"._ But Tully wasn't intimidated...much. Sure, she was a couple years older than he was and she probably already had a strategy worked out, but he didn't _have_ to be allies with her. The Capitol had already made his family's life miserable. It wouldn't matter what she did to him.

Or what the Capitol did for that matter.

"I don't want to be allies with anyone," he finally said.

He didn't. He didn't want to strike up a tentative friendship with someone, only to have a knife stabbed in his back later. Or, worse, be the one doing the stabbing. But he couldn't put his words into thoughts and Livia glared at him, then stalked away. Even if he'd been the most eloquent person in the world, she still wouldn't have listened.

Tully sighed and started walking around to the different stations, waiting for something to catch his eye. He already knew most of the survival stuff the various stations showed, like how to start a fire or identify what plants were alright to eat and which ones weren't. Or how to bandage a wound so that the bleeding stopped. The only thing he didn't really know was how to make snares, but since he couldn't imagine catching someone in a net and then killing them in cold blood, he bypassed that one as well.

Which left the weapons.

_You have three days to learn how to use at least one of these. Don't mess it up._

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Livia throwing spears with surprising accuracy. So, he bypassed the spears and went on to the knives, mainly because so many of them were small, easy to handle, and it didn't take much skill to use them. Unless, of course, he planned on throwing them long distances to get rid of his enemies.

Or muttations.

Tully shuddered inwardly and focused all his attention on the knives.

He didn't want to think about muttations. He'd seen enough of them in previous Games.

The knife he finally selected was slim, silvery, and quite long. More of a dagger. The hilt was silver, as well, but it was comfortable and easy to grip. Tully felt a connection to the weapon. As if he could throw it and it would do whatever he needed it to do. He'd never held a knife before, except a few dull kitchen knives that were used for chopping vegetables, and he was surprised by the feeling of power a weapon could instill. Not enough delusions of grandeur to make him believe he could actually win the Games, but enough to give him a fighting chance, at least.

_Only one way to find out._

He hefted the knife and walked forward a few paces to one of the targets.

With teeth clenched in effort and concentration, he gripped the hilt and drew back his arm to fling the knife into the target. In one smooth movement, the weapon left his hand and flew across the room. It landed in the target's left 'arm' with a satisfying _thunk_ and stayed there, quivering.

Tully stared at the knife and the target for a moment.

He hadn't expected to even hit the target the first time, and there it was, stuck deep inside. Sure, it wasn't a killing shot (in many ways, he was glad it wasn't), but it was a start and if he could practice enough to purposely aim for the targets arms, he could slow down an opponent without killing them. He couldn't imagine killing anyone, especially someone near his own age.

"Hey, you idiot! That's my knife!" Tully whirled around to find a huge Career tribute a few inches away from him. The Career poked him in the chest, hard. "Why'd you take my knife?! I should break your head for that!" He grabbed Tully's wrists and held them in an iron grip.

Anger rose up inside him and he twisted his hands, trying to break the hold.

It was useless.

"Knock it off, Brutus," a new voice said. It was hard and angry. Angry at Brutus.

Tully's wrists were released with a final shove and he fell backwards into a rack of knives. Luckily, none of them stabbed him, and he jumped off and straightened his training uniform. He walked over to the target and wrenched the knife out of it – he still felt satisfaction well up inside him when he felt how far it had plunged in – went back to Brutus, and handed him the knife.

"Didn't know it was yours," he said.

Brutus snickered and snatched the knife away.

He was about as old as Tully, but his size and attitude made him seem older. Much older.

Tully turned away, jaw tight with anger.

A hand was laid on his shoulder. He whirled around, ready for another fight, but stopped when he saw it wasn't Brutus. It was another Career, but he didn't look angry or frustrated, so Tully relaxed a little. "Sorry about that back there," the Career said.

Tully eyebrows drew together in surprise. A Career apologizing for another Career?

"My name's Troy. From District 2."

"Tully," he replied uncertainly. "District 12."

Troy walked over to the overturned knife rack. "You did a great job with that knife throw. First time?"

Tully nodded.

"Show me what else you can do."

New knife in hand, Tully stepped up to the target again. He was wary of any of the Careers, but Troy didn't seem like a bad sort. Unless his plan was to win the poor little tribute from District 12's trust and then turn on him the moment they were in the arena. That was probably it, but Tully didn't care. He wouldn't become friends with any of the Careers – or any of the other tributes, for that matter – and maybe showing off his newfound talent would intimidate the others enough to make them leave him alone for a while.

So he started throwing.

:::::

Hitch looked around him, sizing up the other tributes.

As usual, the Careers – himself included – where bunched up at one end of them room where most of the deadliest weapons were stashed. There, they would all practice their strength and skill over and over again in an attempt to intimidate the other tributes. From watching previous Hunger Games, Hitch knew it usually worked. When faced by a Career, most tributes didn't even think of fighting back.

It was always a fatal mistake.

Scattered through the rest of the large room were all the other tributes. They all seemed a bit more familiar with the weapons in front of them, as opposed to yesterday when they'd come on it cold, but just by looking around Hitch could see that, as usual, the Careers were the most qualified to win the Games, and that meant him as well.

He couldn't really see any of the other tributes as opponents or prey. Maybe that would come later.

"So, 1, show us what you got," one of the Careers said, breaking into his thoughts. He was glad for the interruption. Sure, he'd have to kill at least a few of these tributes in the Games, but it was better to forget that, keep his eye on the prize, and not allow himself to sink into morbid thoughts. He was afraid that if he thought too long about the _rightness_ of the Games, he'd give up and then how on earth would he show his district – and, more importantly, his mom – that he wasn't a kid anymore?

Hitch shrugged and stepped forward.

The Career who'd singled him out was Brutus. District 4. The one who'd picked a fight with the boy from 12 yesterday. The knife hadn't really been his. Every weapon in the room belonged to the Capitol from the shining spears to the streamlined arrows and sharp blades. The knife had been an unusual one, but, still, it wasn't Brutus'.

Hitch ran his eyes over the weapons assembled in neat racks, the racks grouped in the centre of the room. He'd practiced with several different weapons before, but the one he liked the most, the one that fit his hand and purpose the best, was the axe. He walked over and selected one with a carved wooden handle and a wickedly sharp blade.

"All right!"

"Yeah!"

"That's the way!"

Hitch ignored the shouts of approval. They were lame, at best, and he already knew nothing any of them could say – especially Brutus – would make him want to join their pack. If he did, everyone back home would be thinking, _"Yes, that's our boy."_ Well, he didn't want that. He wanted to shock everyone, even if it meant choosing a weak link like a tribute from 11 or 12.

He would select his own team.

With that thought in mind, Hitch threw the axe as straight and true as he could. It lopped off a dummy's head in less than a second. There was a moment of silence and then whistles and cheers burst from the other Careers. Hitch flushed with pleasure. He wasn't planning on joining them, of course, but these guys had been around weapons their entire lives. They knew good marksmanship when they saw it.

Hitch ran back over to the axe rack and yanked off as many of the smaller ones as he could hold, being careful not to drop any to the ground or on his foot. Then, he threw them. At dummies, at holographic targets once the dummies were all gone, at anything that was a target.

His aim now was to intimidate the Careers.

They could go around messing with the other tributes' heads, but he was going to mess with theirs. That way, when he refused an alliance, they'd think twice before pronouncing him an easy target. Even if he would be mostly on his own. Hitch grinned at the thought and kept throwing axes.

As he threw, he thought.

The Games were only a couple days away, which meant he'd have to choose his team quickly, especially if he was going to allay their fears of betrayal. Even if you were a Career, an alliance usually meant the difference between life and death. So who did he want on his team? There was only one half-decent Career – the boy from District 2, Troy – and he figured it would be best to snap him up right away. No matter what his thoughts were on weak links, he wasn't stupid. Another Career would be good to have around.

Who else, then?

Hitch released another axe. Between picking another one up and throwing it, he swung around for a moment and ran his eye over the other tributes. The rest of the Careers had gone back to their own training, but a few other tributes were watching him. The boy from 3, a couple of girls whose districts escaped him – they were pretty though – and the boy from 12. The one Brutus had manhandled.

And that kid had returned the knife, and apologized as well.

Hitch turned back, shaking his head slightly.

He'd probably just been trying to appease a Career's anger, but there'd been a quiet dignity about him that Hitch had liked. Probably because that kind of thing was so foreign in the Career districts. From what he'd seen, the guy could throw knives pretty well – especially for a beginner – and Hitch had seen him pass by the plants and snares and medicine stations like they were nothing. District 12 tributes would most likely have those skills already.

At least that's what he hoped. He really didn't know much about District 12, or any of the other districts for that matter. _Okay, so I've got District 2, District 12...who else? _A good team usually had four or more members, although that certainly wasn't a hard and fast rule. Really, there were no rules in the Games. You kind of had to make your own, which was what Hitch liked.

So far, he had fighting skills and practical knowledge on his team.

There was some component missing, but he couldn't put a finger on it.

Hitch lowered his throwing arm. It ached from all the exertion – even back at Benning University he'd never thrown that hard or long – and he needed a rest. He jogged over to the water station and gulped down a large amount. Then, he sat on one of the hard benches that surrounded the room and waited for 'his' tributes to come up for a drink.

Troy was the first one, which made sense, since Careers weren't afraid of other Careers.

"Hey," Hitch said.

Troy glanced at him and then poured out some water. "What is it?"

"I'm making my own team," he said, plunging right to the heart of the matter. "I'd like you to join."

Troy narrowed his eyes a little and cocked his head to one side. "Why aren't you joining up with the rest of the Careers?" He said the word as if he wasn't a part of it, and Hitch didn't blame him. Brutus would make anyone ashamed of the whole thing, and that's what he was counting on.

"You think I want to hang out with creeps like him?" he said, pointing his chin toward Brutus, who was sitting and laughing with the girl from his district. Hitch shook his head. "Forget it. So, what do you say?" Hitch was being over-eager, but the Games just two days away, what could he do? _I should've thought of this sooner. Much sooner._

Troy rubbed his forehead and suddenly grinned. "I get what you mean. I'll think about it." He turned serious again. "Just don't have any expectations." Hitch frowned. Before he could say anything, Troy continued with, "We can't be friends and I don't want to. We're both out for each other's blood, and I don't want us to pretend otherwise. We can be allies for now, but I don't want you to get some sense of misguided loyalty because it'll get both of us killed."

With that, he left.

Hitch stared after him, and then breathed out a sigh of relief. No matter what Troy said, they were in this together, at least for a short time. _One down, one, possibly two to go._ He briefly considered taking a girl on the team, but just as quickly decided against it. Much as he liked them, a girl could get in the way of his better judgement and needlessly complicate things. No, it would be him, Troy, the kid from District 12, and maybe one other if he could find them.

If he could figure out the missing component.

The boy from District 12 was throwing knives almost lazily, and it didn't look like he'd need a water break anytime soon, so Hitch got up and walked over to him. When he was a few feet away, the boy noticed him and straightened from his near crouching position. He threw a knife from that position, and hit the heart of the target dummy. "You're good," Hitch said. He meant it. "Ever thrown a knife before this?"

The boy shook his head and threw another one.

_He's very good._

"I'm better with a slingshot," he said quietly. So quietly Hitch almost didn't catch it.

"I'm Hitch. From District-"

"I know," the boy said quickly, never taking his eyes from the knives and the target.

When no more information was forthcoming, Hitch said, "What about your name?"

"Tully."

Hitch nodded a little. Tully. Much easier to say than constantly referring to him as 'the boy from District 12'. He sensed that Tully was more open to peace and quiet – ironically enough, considering where they were all headed – so he waited a few moments before broaching the subject of an alliance. But finally, he said, "I don't want to join the other Careers this year. I'm making my own team, and I wondered if you might like to be part of it."

Tully was silent for a few moments. Then, "No."

"Troy will be there," Hitch offered, unwilling to give up, especially with a District 12 tribute. They were usually pretty easily manipulated – not that he really wanted to _manipulate_ anyone – and he was sure he could bring Tully around to his side in no time. "Remember him? District 2? He was the one who saved you from Brutus."

Silence. The knives ceased their endless _thud_ against the dummy.

Tully turned around and looked straight at him. Hitch wasn't one to be intimidated, but there was a quiet, mature, smoldering strength in the boy's eyes (even if he was about the same age) that made him feel two inches tall. "He'd just as soon put a knife in my back," Tully said finally. "I don't want an alliance." He gathered up a couple knives that had fallen to the ground and walked back to the knife rack.

"You don't have a mentor," Hitch said, as he watched Tully carefully replace the knives. "You can't possibly get sponsors on your own. If you're with us, you have a better chance of getting food and weapons and other supplies."

Somehow, he didn't think Tully cared much about that.

"No," Tully said again. "But thanks."

_There's that politeness again._

It was almost an unknown concept to Hitch.

He placed the final knife in its holder and left Hitch standing there.

:::::

For the past two days, Dietrich had kept to himself.

He didn't want to make any allies – or friends – among the other tributes for two reasons. First, in his opinion, he worked better alone and second, if he was planning his own personal war in the arena, anyone connected to him could get if things went wrong. And in the arena, wrong was the name of the game. So, he'd gone around to different stations, learning both survival skills and weaponry. Specifically spear throwing.

He didn't know why this was, but out of all the weapons, the spear appealed to him the most. It was strong, streamlined, and elegant and he didn't want a clunky, awkward weapon. He wasn't proficient in the art yet, but the Hunger Games was a unique teacher. It didn't take a lot of skill to kill someone. Sometimes, the only thing involved in a successful kill was blind luck, but he had a plan for his time in the arena, and it didn't involve killing anyone unless absolutely necessary.

But he didn't have a plan for today.

Dietrich took a deep breath.

Today was the day of individual assessments. Each tribute would have a chance to show off their skills to the Gamemakers and would then be ranked from one to twelve on how well they did. Their ranking was broadcast across the nation, but their session was strictly private. It was the perfect opportunity to do something that would send a statement to the Gamemakers, since they couldn't interpret it as being for anyone else, but his mind was blank.

_Wait. Bide your time. You don't really want them to know what you're like until you're in the arena. That way, you can do more before they realize what you're up to. Stay calm, don't mess things up, and play along with their game for right now. You'll have plenty of time – or at least a little depending on how fast their thick minds catch on – to show them that they don't own you. Concentrate on getting a good score. You're not going anywhere without sponsors, anyway._

Much as Dietrich hated the Capitol and his citizens, he had to admit they were good for something. A bit of food, water, or medicine would do wonders to keep him and his rebellion alive. And if he wasn't go to suck up to the Capitol freaks to get what he wanted, he'd have to impress them with his training score and his interview. Plus, his behaviour in the arena would help, if he played his cards right.

"Hans Dietrich, District 6," a feminine voice said through the loudspeakers in the holding room.

Dietrich stood up. He was right in the middle of the pack when it came to the private session, which was good. The Gamemakers would've had time to settle in, but they wouldn't be bored. He hoped. Without a second glance at the thirteen tributes he was leaving behind, he left the room, walked down a narrow, now familiar hallway, and entered the training room. The Gamemakers were all assembled at one end, on a high platform. A few of them were eating grapes and some kind of meat, but most of them were still attentive. Still watching.

He walked over and stood in front of them, just to get their attention. He didn't bow, or say anything, or even make eye contact. He stood there for a moment, straight and tall, then turned and went for the spear rack. With a half smile, he lifted the longest one out. It felt good to touch a familiar weapon, even if that familiarity had only been gathered after a couple of days.

Dietrich glanced at the Gamemakers again.

Weren't they worried that with all these very real, very sharp weapons in the room that a tribute could throw a weapon at one of them? Or what if a tribute wanted to commit suicide? Inwardly, he shook his head. They were all idiots, masquerading as smart murderers. Briefly, he considered throwing the spear at them, but he wasn't even sure he could hit anyone, and the reprisal would certainly be more than harsh. And, in the end, what good would it do?

They'd still have their Games.

A neat, new row of dummies stood at one end of the training room.

Dietrich fingered the spear, looked once more at the Gamemakers, and then threw the weapon with all the force he could muster. He'd singled out one of the fat, not-so-clever people on the platform as his target, but he hadn't thrown it at the Gamemaker. The spear quivered in one of the stiff, vaguely people-shaped targets at the end of the room.

It had been a good throw, straight in the dummy's heart.

_One down._

About seven to go.

His blood stirring now, he grabbed another spear and after a moment of careful aiming, threw that one too, this time nearly severing the head of the next Gamemaker-dummy. _They have no idea, do they? Not. A. Clue._ Dietrich nearly smiled at the thought, but he was too intent on hitting each target dead-on to spend much time in thoughts of revenge. Those could come after.

When all the dummies were decapitated or covered in fake blood from tiny sacks that had burst, Dietrich let the last spear clang to the floor. It signaled the end of his session. He turned back to the Gamemakers, barely concealed anger in his eyes, nodded, and left the room. As soon as he turned his back on them, a feeling of triumph filled his heart.

If it felt this good to defy them when they didn't even know about it, what would the arena bring?


	4. Scores

Hitch smiled in satisfaction.

As he'd expected, his training score was high – a nine. Predictably so, as every year all the Careers snagged the highest scores. He'd thrown axes left, right, and every other direction he could think of, and since he was only the second to be seen by the Gamemakers, they'd been fresh enough to appreciate his talent. There would almost certainly be axes at the Cornucopia this year.

When he'd first thought about the training scores a few days ago, he'd determined that he'd just stick around to see his score and not pay attention to any of the rest. But that was before he'd made a few allies – well, just one, but that was good enough for the moment – and now he was interested in what Troy's score was. And Tully's. Despite his discomfort over being refused, he still felt an interest in how District 12's male tribute fared.

And, perhaps, he'd see some other tribute that he could enlist to be on his side. One that could fill in the missing link he still couldn't put a finger on. He settled deeper into the plush cushions of the couch he and his district partner, Ruby, sat on and watched names, faces, and numbers flash onto the huge screen directly in front of him.

Troy was given a nine, same as him, and Hitch smiled again. He'd made a good choice. Of course, even if Troy's score had been lower, he wouldn't have kicked him off the team. Tributes had been known to hold back their talents as part of their strategy, and Hitch sensed that Troy was clever enough to try and pull something like that off. Obviously he hadn't, but all the same, it was nice to have a smart guy like that on your team.

Then, District 3's male tribute, Moffitt, came on the screen.

And Hitch sat up and took notice.

An eleven.

_An eleven._

_How on earth did he get that?_

District 3 was one of the poorer districts. They almost always did terribly in the Games, almost as badly as District 12. It was unheard of for a District 3 tribute to get such a high score – a fact that was proven when the girl from District 3 got a two – and Hitch was wild with curiosity over how he'd pulled it off. And that's when he realized what was missing.

He and Troy, as Careers, were both expert fighters.

He still hadn't given up on getting Tully to join his team, with meant practical know-how.

But, a partner from District 3 would mean technical knowledge and probably some strategy as well. How to outsmart your opponents, electrical traps, and perhaps even how to use the all-too-obvious force field to your advantage.

Less than two days before the Games was a late stage in which to add on another ally, but Hitch was sure he could pull it off. Since when had anything been impossible for him?

:::::

A seven.

Dietrich nodded a little to himself.

It was a good score. Not top-notch, but good all the same. If the interview tomorrow afternoon went well, the audience would certainly be watching him, waiting to see the skills that gave him that score of seven. They expected to be entertained by the higher ranking tributes, even more than the others.

He was determined not to disappoint them.

:::::

Tully stared at his hands.

Livia was calling out the different tributes' scores in that excited, high-pitched voice of hers, so Tully didn't even bother to look at the screen. District 12 was right at the bottom of the list, and there was no use in getting excited. All he'd done for the Gamemakers was throw a few knives, and several of them hadn't even hit the target.

Not from want of trying, but from lack of experience.

With an ache that was almost physical, he thought back to his neat row of slingshots at home. He could pick off a bird at fifty yards with one of them, but there had been no slingshots in the training centre. They were probably thought too basic and not exciting enough. If they'd been thought of at all. Still, maybe it was better that way. None of the other tributes knew of his deadly aim, and they probably thought he'd be a pushover.

_I've got no sponsors. It's all up to me._

That thought weighed on him harder than anything else. He'd refused the help of that Career from District 1. He had no mentor that could pull together some sponsors. And he'd already determined that the first thing he'd do was put as much distance between him and Livia as possible. There was something in her eyes that made him shudder.

So, it was up to him, maybe some knives, and whatever kind of slingshot he could pull together.

"Eight! I got an eight!" Livia shrieked with delight.

"Congratulations," Tully said, his voice dull.

She ignored him. Every since he'd refused her offer of alliance, she'd kept an icy, controlled distance from him. In some ways he was glad, but it also meant he couldn't keep as close an eye on her as he'd wanted. There'd been a time when he'd wanted to trust her, if for no other reason than that she was from back home. But there were certain times where you couldn't afford to trust anyone, and the Hunger Games was one of those times.

He sighed and looked up.

_Tully Pettigrew. District 12. Four._

The words and numbers flashed across the screen, glowing cold white. Tully looked back down at his hands. His thumbs rubbed together in a hurried pattern and he clenched them together tightly to stop the nervous action. If Livia saw it...

Four.

No, there was no hope of sponsors.


	5. Interviews

Hitch stepped out into the spotlight, a grin on his face.

It was the long awaited interview day, and he couldn't wait to show the Capitol audience how prepared he was to take on the Games and his fellow tributes. A deafening round of applause greeted him and he smiled even wider as he made a slight bow and then plopped down into the chair beside the interview host, Caesar Flickerman.

From where he sat, he couldn't see much of the audience. The floodlights were bright, and everything beyond them looked like a black void. But he knew they were out there, hanging on his every word, holding their breath to hear whatever he would say. For a moment, that fact gave him a pause, but he quickly recovered himself. Caesar was speaking.

"So, Mark, how are you finding the Capitol?"

Hitch cleared his throat. "It's fine. It's great. I'm really enjoying myself here. But, please call me Hitch," he added. "Everyone does." E_xcept my mom,_ he thought, but he didn't say it aloud, even if it would've gotten some laughs from the audience. He hadn't come up here to drag his family through the mud.

Caesar smiled, the expression stretched tightly over his near-mask of plastic implants and surgery that was supposed to make you more attractive. His hair and eyebrows were bright yellow this year and, frankly, Hitch found the whole thing a little ridiculous. Some people in District 1 followed the Capitol fashions to the extreme, but he'd always stayed away from the whole thing. Anyway, all the girls at school said he was handsome enough without modifications.

"Now, just between you and me," Caesar said, leaning forward, his face a mix of confidentiality and a thirst for gossip, "I hear you've attracted quite a string of followers in the few days you've been here. Care to confirm or deny that?" He leaned back a little, a smirk on his face since he obviously already knew that Hitch had several Capitol citizens that wanted a chance to sponsor him.

Hitch also leaned back and crossed one leg over the other.

"They've been pretty eager to sponsor me," he said, flashing a smile at the crowd he couldn't see. "How can I take no for an answer?" Cheers, screams, and whistles erupted from the black void, and he wasn't certain but it sounded as though at least one or two people called out "I love you!" If he'd been anywhere else but in the nation's spotlight, he would've rolled his eyes. Not that he didn't appreciate the attention. He did. But the Capitol people could be so shallow, and 'falling in love' with a guy who could be dead within days was just proof of that.

Caesar winked at him. "Of course you couldn't. Of course."

At first, Hitch _had_ been going to take no for answer, but then his mentor had reminded him that without sponsors, even a Career was good as dead. What Hitch had been worried about the most was the fact that he'd have to play along to all those sponsors if he won the Games. _When_ he won the Games. _"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,"_ his mentor had said. _ "Don't be stupid."_

So here he was, accepting promises of help from people he didn't even know.

Well, he'd still go on his own strength as long as he could before asking for that help.

"Time's almost up," Caesar said, drawing him back to the here and now, "So here's my last question for you. You've shown a remarkable sense of assuredness for someone your age, from the first moment we saw you in the tribute parade, to your impressive score of _nine_. What do you think your chances in the arena are, hmm?"

Hitch smiled. This was where he could take the Capitol audience and have them all begging to be his sponsors. "One hundred percent," he said. "Sure, I'm young, but there's been victors before that are even younger than me. I'm strong, I'm fast, I've got a good grip on all the weapons out there, and I've got some great sponsors. Am I being over-confident?" he asked rhetorically. "I don't think so."

He glanced over at Caesar and saw a grin splitting once again over the man's face.

The buzzer sounded.

"Unfortunately, our interview is over," Caesar said. "Thank you, Hitch, and good luck to you."

Hitch strode off the stage and followed the path his district partner had taken to a large lounge area with a huge screen where one could watch all the other tribute interviews as they happened. He and his partner were the only two in the room. The girl from District 2 was being interviewed, then she would join them and it would be Troy's turn.

Troy's interview went well, in Hitch's opinion.

He answered Caesar's questions quickly, if not rudely, and looked as if he were disgusted by the whole thing. Which you wouldn't think would curry favour with the Capitol, but several tributes over the years had made a name for themselves by being the sullen, strong type and Troy certainly seemed to fit the criteria. Hitch saw nothing that made him regret becoming allies with the tribute. Of course, he'd have to keep a close eye on Troy, since he was much older, bigger, and also a Career, but Hitch wasn't too worried. It would all work out in the end.

Then, after another interview, it was District 3's male tribute, Moffitt, taking the interview chair. He seemed relaxed, except for his restless hands, and if he didn't say anything to blow away the audience, he didn't make them angry either. That was always a good sign, since there was usually one tribute that dropped the ball. He couldn't give any details about his impressive score, since that was all kept under wraps, but he talked about liking a girl back home and how he wanted to win so he could go back and marry her. He said a few words about some surprises he planned to show the audience in the arena.

Typical tribute talk, but Hitch was inclined to believe him, especially with a score like that.

He determined inside himself to talk to Moffitt sometime that evening about joining his team.

:::::

Dietrich clenched his jaw.

He was out on the interview stage, the Capitol pressing in on him at all sides, and he had to answer Caeser Flickerman's inane questions and go along with his idiotic banter. His mentor had sensed something of his rebellious streak and had nearly begged Dietrich to make himself agreeable. _"You won't get any sponsors if you don't,"_ he'd warned, but Dietrich could've cared less.

He wanted the audience watching him. Just watching him. In order to do that, he'd have to make an impression, either good or bad. If they chose to send supplies in little silver parachutes, that was up to them, but mainly he wanted them to see what he did in the arena. He wanted to make a statement. The Gamemakers couldn't keep the cameras away forever, could they?

"Can you tell us anything about your strategy?" Caesar asked.

Dietrich shook his head. _Like I'm going to spill all my secrets in front of the other tributes. What do you think I am? A fool? _Some tributes said they liked Caesar, but Dietrich despised the man. He was the one who made the murdering of twenty-three young people seem like some kind of sport. A game show with a twist. Dietrich couldn't stand hypocrites, and Caesar was one of the worst he'd ever met.

"No? At least let us know if we can expect anything special from you," Caesar said. No, demanded. His smooth host face was still intact, but Dietrich sensed frustration just below the surface. He knew exactly why. He wasn't playing along with the rules. He didn't try to give 'right' answers. He was being honest to himself, not trying to make some tribute identity for himself that wasn't actually him, and that was the problem Caesar was trying to deal with.

"Yes," Dietrich said. "All the others are playing games. Not me. Watch the others, but watch me too." He thought about adding _"That is, if the Gamemakers don't turn the cameras somewhere else"_ but figured that might be overkill, considering that he wanted to make it into the arena alive, with perhaps a few hours to carry out at least part of his plan.

Caesar smiled again. Dietrich knew why. It appeared as though he was once again playing by the Capitol's rules by giving what most would consider a clichéd response to Caesar's clichéd question. But he was serious. His words probably wouldn't make much of an impression on the masses, but one or two might remember him and watch what he did.

At the moment, that was all he could ask for.

:::::

Tully didn't know what to do with his hands.

One minute they were in his lap, the next at his sides on the interview seat, and then in his pockets. He was under the scrutiny of an entire nation, and there was no way he would ever be comfortable about that. It would be the same in the arena, but at least then he wouldn't be able to feel the audience's stifling presence. He'd be in the open air, away from everyone's staring eyes.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and swallowed hard.

It was one of the worst things he could have done, in terms of strategy, since all the other tributes – and the audience – would see how nervous he was. Livia had shone like a star, playing the audience for all she was worth, but he knew he couldn't do that.

For one, he doubted he could get a word out without stuttering, and why should he attempt to please the Capitol audience? They were all out for his blood, and if anyone wanted to sponsor him, they'd have found some way to contact him before this. So all he could do was work on his own, maintain his purity of self, and let them see that he wasn't going down without a fight.

"I think we were all sorry to see your score last night," Caesar said, sympathy written all over his face. "But I must say that it's higher than some other District 12 tributes from other years." He glanced at the crowd. A ripple of laughter welled up from them and Tully shook his head inwardly. _They're all so petty. Small minded._ "I don't believe for one second that you've shown us everything you showed the Gamemakers everything you've got, have you?" Caesar continued, since Tully hadn't made a comment since he'd emerged onstage.

"No," Tully said. "I didn't."

It was true. If only he'd had a slingshot.

Caesar beamed. "I knew it!"

Tully stared down at his hands. All he wanted was for the whole ordeal to be over.


	6. Countdown

Tully was lowered via hovercraft into the tiny, cell-like holding room that had been designed specifically for the sixty-sixth Hunger Games.

New tribute holding rooms were crafted every year, just like the arena was different each year. He wondered was on top this year. In a few minutes, he'd know, and it was impossible to control a shiver at the thought. Each Games, the Gamemakers attempted to out-do their previous attempts, which always meant more devilish twists for the tributes. At the moment he couldn't imagine what could be worse than all the other Games he'd been forced to watch over the years.

His stylist, a petite middle-aged woman with aqua-blue skin was waiting for him in the holding room.

"I've got your clothes," she said, smiling and sweeping a large cardboard box off the table all in one motion. "They always design the arena outfits to compliment, reflect, and sometimes even help with whatever's in the arena." She opened the box to reveal pants, a jacket, and a shirt all in the same shade of dusty yellow. Thick boots rested on top of the clothes.

Tully looked at the clothes, then at her.

She coughed a little and then said, "I'd say something hot, since the fabric is light, without being weak. They wouldn't give you something like this if you were being sent out into snow and ice, so it's either heat or normal temperatures. These boots could work anywhere, though, so that's no hint." She scrutinized the outfit for a moment more, then pulled it out of the box and handed it to Tully.

He stared at the jacket and pants for a moment. A sense of unreality, of detachment swept over him as though he weren't really standing in a holding room, waiting to be sent up into an arena with twenty-three bloodthirsty tributes. He fought the sensation. If he was to survive the first ten minutes, he'd need all his wits about him.

In a moment, he was decked out in the arena uniform.

"Two minutes to launch time," a computerized voice said.

Tully glanced up at the speaker from which the voice had issued and then looked away, down at his hands, at his stylist face, fingering the unfamiliar material of his jacket. Anywhere but at the glass tube that stood silently to one side of the room. The tube that send up to his death.

"Oh, I almost forgot!" the stylist exclaimed in her high-pitched Capitol accent. "We received this in an express dispatch from District 12 just last night." She fished a small package out of her shirt pocket and handed it to him. It had been opened. "It's your district token," she said. "You're allowed to have one, you know."

He slowly unfolded the paper.

Inside was a thick, long piece of rubbery material about the width of his forearm. It was grey, with a stylized '12' on either side, and some geometric designs weaving away from the number. But he couldn't have cared less about the directions. It was the actual token itself that forced him to keep a grin off his face, for fear of giving its purpose away.

A slingshot strap.

Hope surged inside him. Sure, it wouldn't be anything in hand-to-hand combat, especially if he were trapped against a rock or something, but he was fast, he could climb trees, and if he could get into the right position with big enough rocks, he could easily pick off a couple of tributes, if not more. For the first time since arriving in the Capitol, there was a chance. Small, yes, but a chance.

"I'll just tie it around your arm, shall I?" his stylist said.

He nodded and gave it back to her. With a few deft movements, she had it tied around his arm in such a way that the '12' was clearly visible. It wasn't too tight, just enough not to fall off, and easy to release if he needed it in a hurry.

"Thanks," he said.

She smiled. "Go out there and show them District 12 is ready for a fight."

:::::

"One minute to launch time."

Dietrich stood quietly in the holding room, letting his stylist give his outfit a few finishing touches. A tug here, a smoothing there...in less than a minute he'd be on the outside, so what did it matter if his jacket was in perfect order? Still, the fussing and fidgeting helped distract his mind and quell the jittery feeling of his insides.

He was still sticking to his plans of rebellion, but at the moment they didn't really seem to matter. All that mattered was the here and now. Sweat beading on his forehead. A whoosh of cold air from a ventilator at the far end of the room. His stylist squeezing his shoulder. And the knowledge that there were twenty-three other young people going through the exact same thing.

A shudder went through him and he closed his eyes.

"Nervous?" his stylist asked, sympathy in her voice.

He laughed a short, bitter laugh. "Wouldn't you be?"

She was silent. Then, "I suppose I would be."

He opened his eyes. She stood in front of him, sadness written all over her face. For a moment, he felt sorry for her, but then pushed the feeling aside. She was a Capitol citizen. She was just as bad as President Snow and the Gamemakers who'd designed this hideous place. Whatever sympathy she might feel for him was superfluous. He was sure that as soon as the games started, she'd be just as eager for his blood as everyone else.

"Thirty seconds."

"Good luck," the stylist said.

Without being prompted, Dietrich turned and stepped over to the tube that would raise him into the arena. As soon as he was inside, a glass door slid across, separating him from the holding room and his stylist.

A rising sensation pulled him up.

Suddenly, he was trembling.

:::::

Hitch rose gently up out of the ground, into the arena.

Adrenaline filled him.

His first sight of the arena was not promising.

Sand. Everywhere, sand. It was the first thing that registered in his mind. The sun glared down on the twenty-four tributes that were ringed in a semi-circle around the Cornucopia, and all he could think of was the heat. It was oppressive, and already he wanted to throw off his jacket. But as the slightest touch could set off the mines under his feet, he kept it on.

Anyway, he had more pressing concerns.

In mere seconds, the gong would sound and it would be every man for himself.

Well, not quite. He had Troy on his side. After a long, late conversation last night, he also had Moffitt. Troy didn't know yet, and they didn't really have a good strategy worked out, but he figured he'd wade into the Cornucopia bloodbath, get as many supplies and weapons as he could and try to make sure that Moffitt didn't get killed. He didn't have any worries about Troy, since he was a Career as well.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the sixty-sixth annual Hunger Games!" boomed the legendary voice of Gamemaker, Claudius Templesmith.

The sun glared off the Cornucopia, making it difficult to see anything, but Hitch could make out an electronic clock, ticking down from '30'. When it reached '0', the gong would sound, the mines would be disabled, and the tributes would break loose from their platforms. There was a pair of axes on top of a backpack right next to the Cornucopia's mouth. Hitch zeroed in on those. They would be his first hit.

He took in the other tributes with a quick glance.

Troy.

Moffitt.

And that District 12 boy, Tully.

They all looked ready, if not eager.

Hitch looked back to the Cornucopia.

_3._

_2._

_1._

The gong sounded.

_Let the Games begin._


	7. The Games Begin

As soon as the gong sounded, Tully was off and running as fast as the hot slippery sand would let him.

He didn't need a mentor to tell him that it would be impossible to survive the Cornucopia bloodbath. Much as he needed the food, water, and weapons that were clumped together near the mouth of the structure, he left it all behind without so much as a second glance.

Other tributes would surely follow, but from what he could see, he was the first one away.

He ran, slipping and skidding, for a huge sand dune several metres away from the Cornucopia. It would offer him some protection from the sharp, seeking eyes of the Careers; he be able to see more of the arena, and it would give him a few moments to plot out what strategy he'd be following now that his first – getting away from the bloodbath as quickly as possible – had worked.

He was only a few feet away from the dune when the knife came.

It sped out of nowhere, he never saw it coming, but it bit into his left shoulder all the same.

With a cry that was more shocked than pained, he fell to the ground, cheek against the blisteringly hot grains of sand and dust. _No. Get up. Get up or you're dead. It's not a deep wound. Just a scratch. You'll be fine, but only if you get up._

Now he could hear panting and soft footsteps rushing up to him.

The knife was in the sand next to him. He hesitated for a moment, but only a moment.

He whirled around, knife in hand, and scrambled to his feet at the same time. Livia stood in front of him. She had a spear in her hand, a backpack on her shoulders, and he could see a couple knives dangling from her belt. How had she gotten so much without even a scratch? "Hey," she said, her voice snaking across the hot desert air.

Tully bit his lip.

"I told you we should've been allies," she said, drawing back her spear arm.

He couldn't think, he couldn't rationalize or moralize, he just reacted.

The knife flew from his hands, scraping a bloody mark against her cheek. He couldn't have missed from the distance of a few feet that separated them, but he'd wanted to miss. It was too close, too personal. He didn't want to kill her – or anyone, for that matter, but he knew her. If his attacker had been some nameless, faceless tribute whose district he didn't know...

As it was, the knife throw gave him a head start.

He took it.

Heart pounding, legs driving into the soft sand, he refused to think of anything other than getting away. He didn't think of how Livia could easily sink her spear into his back if he didn't get away before she recovered from the shock of his knife throw. He didn't think of his shoulder, throbbing more and more painfully as his body exerted itself. And he didn't think, didn't _allow_ himself to think, of what was going on behind him, back at the Cornucopia.

At the moment, he needed to find some place to hide, recover, and make plans.

From where he was, all he could see was endless desert, stretching out in every direction.

:::::

The instant the mines under his feet were disabled, Dietrich was on the move.

As a District 6 tribute with little experience and no weapons – yet – his chances of surviving in the Cornucopia bloodbath were not good, but he needed supplies. At least some water, especially considering what the arena was, and weapons were also a must. He wouldn't go far, just enough to grab a few essentials.

Blood rushed into his head, and for a moment he thought he might black out.

_Forget it,_ he told himself. _That's not smart._

Shouts, screams, the clash of metal on metal, and the hot, metallic scent of blood filled the air.

He stood still for an instant, just a few feet off his pedestal, waiting for an opening.

No-one was paying attention to him at the moment. Everyone was either dashing away from the Cornucopia as fast as possible, or brawling over the best supplies at the very entrance of the golden framework. But in a very few moments, the first flush of battle would be over, and the real Games would begin. He was determined not to stick around for that.

_There._

_An opening._

He dashed in, and grabbed two backpacks – they were small enough for him to carry both without too much trouble – slinging one of them over his shoulders to leave a hand empty for whatever weapons he could gather as well. A few feet further into the Cornucopia he saw three spears. A tiny dagger rested on top of the trio.

_Perfect._

He ran a few paces in, snatched up the weapons, and ran back out. He didn't bother to look back. He was afraid that if he saw a head-on view of the snatches he'd seen, he'd throw up or go back there and try to destroy everyone. There was no in between. He couldn't afford to think like that. He needed quiet and calm to go through the contents of his new backpacks – they were both reasonably heavy – find a source of water, and then carry out his plan.

Behind the Cornucopia, there was a flat, open, sandy plain. No-one else had gone that way, presumably because anyone could see you for miles, but it was in that direction Dietrich spotted a greenish haze off in the distance. It meant water, and, at the moment, that was the most important thing. So, he set off for it. No-one else was coming that way, anyway, and he could run fast enough.

:::::

The loud, harsh sound of the gong was still ringing in Hitch's ears when he made his first kill.

He skidded off his pedestal, tripped, and fell to the ground. In an instant he was back up again, running straight to the mouth of the Cornucopia. On the way there, he scooped up the two axes he'd seen – not bothering with the backpack for the moment, since he expected to fight for what he needed and the pack would just slow him down.

Everything was chaos.

Blood gushing, the clash of sword against sword, knife against the soft metal of the Cornucopia, grunts and shrieks tearing through the air. Hitch wanted to plug his ears, but with both hands occupied, that was impossible. And, after all, did he want to appear weak? No. He swallowed hard, and pressed on to the mouth of the Cornucopia. That's where all the good stuff was.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the female tribute from District 4 running full-tilt toward him, a bow and ready arrow in her hands, cold hatred in her eyes. Hatred most likely gathered from his refusal to join the usual Career pack. He stopped dead in his tracks and threw one of his axes, hardly bothering to aim since she was so close.

She went down in a spurt of blood, a twisted cry dead on her lips.

Hitch stared at her for a moment. Not even five minutes into the Games, and there was his first kill, dead in the dust at his feet. His sponsors would probably get a kick out of that, but he felt nothing. They'd be happy and triumphant in the fact that they'd chosen a good tribute, one that could kill without hesitation, but the emotions inside him weren't happiness or triumph.

He'd never seen a dead person before.

_Stop it. These are the Hunger Games. You have to kill people to win. What did you expect? That you could just throw a few axes for target practice and everyone would fall over and die for you? Think! That's not how it's going to be. It's tough and painful and horrible, but you have to push through. If you don't, you're dead. Is that what you want?_

"No," he said out loud.

If he survived the bloodbath, he knew that his thoughts of regret and guilt would return, but for now, he had to concentrate on staying alive so he could actually think those thoughts. There'd been a brief lull in the Games, just enough for him to process the fact that he'd actually killed someone, but that was over now. If it had even started. He'd been too numb to notice anything around him, but that was over.

She was dead, he was alive, and that's how the Games worked.

At the moment, nothing else mattered.

"Hitch!" someone shouted.

He turned around, axe in hand, ready to throw, but it was Moffitt, who was loaded down with at least three backpacks – one on his back, and two hanging on his arms – while his hands were stuffed with spears, axes, along with a bow and quiver slung over his shoulder. "Get what you need, and then let's get out of here," Moffitt said. "Where do you want to go?"

In response, Hitch threw his axe just as another tribute – a boy this time; he didn't know from what district – ran behind Moffitt, murder in his eyes. He caught the tribute in the chest, but the axe bounced off with a sickening crack, so the tribute would most likely survive the attack.

For a moment, Hitch felt relief at the thought, but he pushed it away.

He wasn't supposed to think like that. The sponsors didn't expect a compassionate tribute when they signed up to send him whatever he needed. They wanted someone who could fulfill their bets and make them proud when they told their friends that, "I sponsored Mark Hitchcock in last year's Games." And feeling relief over a not-dead tribute was not a way to do that. Right now, the sponsors were the most important thing.

They could send him water, after all.

He didn't see any in the arena, and that was a recipe for disaster, considering the arena was a desert. Hitch glanced around him and grabbed a couple more axes and another backpack. "We can go now." Then he remembered Moffitt's question. He looked around again, and pointed to the left of the Cornucopia. "The dunes are almost as high as mountains there. Let's get behind them, see what's on the other side, and go from there."

Moffitt nodded and shrugged his third backpack and quiver into a more comfortable position.

"Troy! We're leaving!" Hitch shouted across the Cornucopia area.

Troy fending off knife jabs from Brutus using another, longer knife. When he heard Hitch, he redoubled his efforts, and finally managed to slash the District 1 tribute across the lower leg. Brutus shouted in pain and dropped his weapon. Troy picked it up and jogged across the sand to where Hitch was waiting.

His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Moffitt. "Who's this?"

_Oh, rats. I forgot to tell him._

"Moffitt's joined up with us," Hitch said.

"Since when?"

"Last night. I wanted to tell you, but it was getting too late." Inwardly, Hitch kicked himself. Despite the fact that it had been past midnight when he'd finally been able to convince Moffitt to join up with him, he should've made the extra effort to speak with Troy. Considering where they were, even alliances formed over several days were fragile, and a couple of last minute decisions – with both Troy and Moffitt – were not the best formula for success.

"Let's just get out of here," Troy said, his jaw tight.

Neither Hitch nor Moffitt had any problems with his order.


	8. First Day

Tully had walked for two hours without coming across any sign of life, any other tributes, or any water. There were scruffy bushes dotted here and there – all of them a uniform dusty green colour – but as far as he could tell, they grew at the Gamemakers command, not from any water nearby. He'd made sure to drink and eat a good amount that morning, in preparation for his time in the arena, but he knew it wouldn't hold him for long.

_Probably couldn't even find my way back to the Cornucopia._

The arena couldn't go on forever, of course, but he could easily collapse before getting anywhere helpful. Currently, he was standing in the middle of a mostly flat, sandy plain. Dunes rose up on either side of him, several dozen feet tall. There could be something beyond them. Or not. But if he was already expending energy in what looked like a useless endeavour – wandering here and there – he might as well expend it do something like climbing the dunes and seeing if he could find anything new.

Sand under his hands, under his feet.

Getting in his hair, the cracks of his skin, sifting around in his clothes.

He was more than tempted to throw the jacket away, but who knew what the arena sun could do to your skin? But he was sweating hard, and that worried him. In the past couple of hours, he'd probably burned off most of what little water reserve he had left and if he didn't find some source of liquid soon, he'd be the first casualty of natural causes. From watching the Games for over ten years, he knew that many tributes died from not having enough food, water, or shelter.

These Games would be no different.

Not everyone died from a Career's knife or bow or spear.

As he climbed, the sand shifted from under his feet several times. He had nothing to grip on to, so it took a good ten minutes to get to the top of the dune. When he finally made it up there, his heart sank. Endless desert sands and dunes stretched in front of him. Perhaps if he climbed all the dunes in order, he'd see something.

The thought was exhausting, but since he was still in relatively good shape, it was better to do it now than when he was really weak and desperate. Better to do it when he still had all his senses about him. Even as that thought ran through his head, the landscape in front of him shivered and glittered, as though water were just a few yards away.

He shook his head and blinked a couple of times to dispel the image.

_Just a case of mirages._

Still, if he were seeing mirages, it was best that he get going right away. From what he could calculate, there were at least five hours left before the blinding, blistering sun cooled off and went into hiding for the night. At least if that's what the Gamemakers were content to let happen. He'd seen Games where the days and nights were twisted around and shortened so many times that some of the tributes went mad. No matter what, he was determined not to let that happen.

So, he pressed on, down the first dune, across to the next one.

It was a simple matter of survival now.

:::::

_First things first._

Dietrich had found the oasis, just as he'd suspected. It had taken a half hour to reach it, but he didn't mind. It would take other tributes just as long, if they saw it at all. The Careers would probably stick by the Cornucopia for a while, and the other, lesser tributes might not have the nerve to hike to such an open location. At least that's what he was banking on.

He examined his arm. On the hovercraft he took to get to the arena, a smiling woman had given him a needle shot that had inserted a tracker into his arm. That way, the Gamemakers would never lose a tribute, they'd know when a tribute died, as soon as it happened, and, most importantly, they'd be able to send in attacks on specific tributes.

The tracker emitted a faint green glow, which was good.

He knew exactly where to make the first cut.

Hopefully, no cameras were tracking him right now. He doubted they were, because the Cornucopia bloodbath still raged on – there'd been no cannons yet, which meant the chaos and confusion hadn't died down – but even if every single Gamemaker camera was on him at the moment, they couldn't stop him.

It would take only a moment to rip the tracker out, and then he'd be off their radar.

Of course, they could still track him with their cameras, but it would harder. Much harder. And they wouldn't have the precision of attack they always liked. There would be no fireballs slamming into him at exactly the right time, or lightening strikes. Disabling the cameras would have made it even easier, but there wasn't a chance of that. He was almost positive they were embedded right into the arena's force field.

He took a deep breath, and then plunged the knife into his arm.

Tears started to his eyes from the pain, but he pushed them aside. This was not time for weaklings and cowards. If he was going to succeed in his plan, he had to be brave and strong and not give into the pain. After the first cut, it wasn't too bad. Or, rather, the pain was so bad that he went numb. The body's last defence, and one that he'd counted on.

Gingerly, he worked the blade around, until he felt it bump against something small and hard. He used the fingers of his other hand, then, and pulled the tracker out all the way. It was small, green, and quite dead. Just to be sure, he flung it as far away as he could. The Gamemakers were probably all on their feet, trying to figure out what had just happened, and the thought almost made him smile.

Almost.

The numbness brought on by adrenaline was leaving, and he shook all over with the pain and the adrenaline slowly draining out of him now that the immediate danger was past. There was a good sized pool at the oasis – he hadn't drunk from it yet – and he stuck his arm inside. The water instantly turned dark red, but the tepid water was soothing.

There must have been an underground spring, for as the blood was washed form his arm, the pool once again regained its clear, clean appearance. With a grimace, Dietrich withdrew him arm and look at the wound, now cleaned except for a thin trickle of blood running from the cut. It still throbbed with pain, but the water had done a good job at getting the edge off.

He rinsed off the dagger and the sticky, nearly dried blood from his left hand. In the heat, it had all dried quickly, and it took a few moments of scrubbing with some sand – carefully, in the case of the dagger – to clean the blood away. Once he and his weapons were presentable again, he turned to the problem of his arm.

District 6's transportation industry was about the furthest thing from medicinal knowledge, so he went by his instincts. Used the dagger to slash a few wide strips of cloth from his jacket and bound the wound as tightly as he could, using his left hand, with his weaker right hand as bracing. Soaked the now bandaged arm for a couple of seconds, and then kept the whole arm still as possible while he allowed himself a few moments to relax.

His entire body was trembling from the exertion, the pain, and the hurried attempts to assuage the blood, so a rest was certainly in order. He scooted back a few feet on the sand, away from the pool, until his back rested against the solitary tree that was at the oasis. It was tall and thick, with no branches except a few sturdy looking ones right at the top. Strange, broad leaves covered the top, and if he'd known anything about trees, he'd have attempted to climb that one. It was the ideal place to hide and, if you so chose, to pick off tributes.

Not that he was planning on that.

He leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes for a moment. He felt like he was forgetting something, and the restful position might calm him down enough to help him think more clearly. _See what's in your backpacks._ That was it. He'd told himself that as soon as the tracker was out, he go through the contents of his pack and see what sort of useful things were inside.

Despite his exhaustion and drained mind, now was the right time. He had no idea how much longer he'd be able to sit here in peace and quiet, so it was best to take advantage of it while he still could. The backpacks were a few inches from him, flung on the sand where he'd thrown them down as soon as he'd entered the oasis' haven.

Out of habit, he reached out his right arm to grab them, and drew it back with a painful intake of breath. _Remember_, he told himself fiercely. _You've got no room for errors now._ It wasn't as if his arm was broken, but it felt right to almost treat it like it was. So, he pulled the backpacks closer to him and unzipped the first one. They were both a uniform black colour and on the small side.

He pulled out each item and examined it carefully before taking out the next one.

A small canteen. He didn't bother to look inside, but he heard the swish of liquid – presumably water – when he shook it. Two small packets fell out next. The first was dried, salted beef. The second, raisins. Both of them would make him thirsty, but it was food. And after water, food was the most important thing.

There was also a tiny bottle with 'water purification tablets' printed clearly on one side. The contents rattled when he shook it, and he guessed that there were at least twelve inside. They were an excellent find, almost as precious as water itself, and he was instantly suspicious of the oasis pool. Clearly not drinking the water had been the right thing to do.

At the very bottom, wadded up, were a hat and a blanket.

The hat was a simple, visored one, and he put it on right away. It would be good protection against the sun's rays. The blanket puzzled him momentarily, but since the Gamemakers were fond of changing temperatures to suit their plans, it would probably come in handy at some point. As far as he could tell, it was the kind that reflected body heat.

He stuffed everything back in and went onto backpack number two.

There was another full canteen, beef, and raisins. In addition to the food and water, there were sunglasses, and a much larger, but empty, canteen. Dietrich was pleased with the last item, since it made his plan easier. He could fill the large canteen for himself – using the tablets, of course – and save the other two for when they were needed. A side pocket hung on the outside of the backpack, and when he unzipped it, two strange wire mesh objects popped out.

He flipped them over in his hand. There was no purpose for them, as far as he could tell.

The wire was slightly stretchy, and he tugged at it. As it widened, he saw a particular shape taking form. It looked like the skeleton of a shoe, and suddenly he knew what its purpose was. His first real smile in days played across his face as he slipped the mesh over his boots. Then, steadying himself against the tree, he rose shakily to his feet and walked a few steps.

It was just as he'd suspected.

The wire displaced the sand and made walking much, much easier. With difficulty, he shoved everything back into his pack and hoisted the first onto his shoulders, and the second around his arm. The dagger was also slipped into a backpack, and he carried the spears in his right hand. It was hard, but doable. Then, he set back out across the desert, making sure he kept his bearings.

He didn't want to lose the oasis.

:::::

_Three small, full canteens._

_Two larger, empty ones._

_Four packets of beef._

_Four packets of raisins._

_Four hats._

_Two heat reflective blankets._

_Three pairs of wire over-shoes._

_Two pairs of sunglasses._

_One bottle of water purification tablets._

If things had gone as he'd expected, Hitch would've been near ecstatic at their haul from the Cornucopia. Instead, it was the furthest thing from his mind, as he tried to keep the peace between two tributes that were three years older than himself. Since this was the Games, anger could be fatal for the person it was directed at, and right now, Troy was angry with both Hitch and Moffitt.

"We're supposed to be a team," Troy said, glaring at Hitch. "I trusted you enough to join up with you instead of the Careers, and now you just decide to throw a new guy into this alliance."

"Three is better than two," Hitch said.

"Says who? There've been plenty of good alliances in the Games with only two people."

"Moffitt knows things. Technical things. He can help us with stuff."

Moffitt was standing a little ways away from both Troy and Hitch, watching them battle it out. Hitch wasn't sure if he kept his distance because he was afraid, or because he simply didn't want to get involved. Probably a mix of both. But at Hitch's words, he moved a little closer.

"Hitch is right, Troy," he said. "I may not have trained like you Careers, but I do know a thing or two about how these arenas work." His face eased into a smile for a moment, and Hitch was surprised. Whatever the boy from District 3 was, coward wasn't one of them. He was standing up against a deadly Career, speaking his mind, and not backing down. Now, more than ever, Hitch was sure he'd made the right decision.

Troy huffed and put his hands on his hips.

Hitch tightened his grip on his axe.

"What sort of technical stuff could he help us with?"

Hitch looked at Moffitt for help with the question.

"When I was taken in for my private session, I blacked out the training room."

"So?"

Moffitt hesitated for a moment. "I know a quite a lot about the arenas. The Gamemakers work closely with my father and some of the other important people in District 3 so that they can create new technology each year that will push the Games to greater levels of entertainment. With a bit of luck, I could rig something up that will help us stay one step ahead in the game." He looked at Troy. "What do you say, Troy?"

Troy let out a sigh that was half resignation, half frustration.

"Fine," he said. "But you make one wrong move, I'll slit your throat myself."

"Let's go, then," was all Moffitt said.

They'd walked for several minutes before stopping behind a dune, but as of yet, they'd found no oasis. So the three of them worked together on re-filling the backpacks, dividing up the weapons and supplies evenly among themselves so that no-one would be too weighted down, and set off across the desert. Long shadows from a setting sun were already slanting across the sand, and the air had cooled down. They needed to find some place that could offer them cover against night marauders.

The thought didn't worry Hitch, who was too relieved about how things had turned out to care much about jackal mutts at the moment. He grinned. Despite Troy's threat, the whole thing had gone much easier than he'd thought, and now, hopefully, he wouldn't have to play peacemaker between the two. Looking out for two tributes older and stronger than himself was both worrisome and tiring.

He was ready for them to all work as a team.


	9. First Night

The farther Tully walked, the more his shoulder ached.

Night was coming, the sky would be black in just a few minutes, and he still hadn't found shelter. Everything was endless, burning sand although, with the night approaching, it was beginning to cool off. Currently, the atmosphere was pleasantly cool, but he knew that as the night deepened, the air would become increasingly chilled. His light jacket would be no defence against freezing temperatures.

Right now, though, the cold was the least of his problems.

Hours of exerting himself had increased his once-small need for water into a raging distraction. It was next to impossible to think of anything other than how thirsty he was. Somewhere inside him, he was vaguely aware that he was hungry as well, but his thirst overpowered everything else.

Tully stopped in his tracks and looked around.

There were no trees, no grass, and no water. Just a few scrub bushes here and there and none of them were strong enough to accommodate a slingshot. Even if they were, there was nothing to shoot. He'd seen no tributes or animals since he'd left Livia with a cut on her cheek, and that worried him. He knew, from watching previous Games, that if a tribute got too far away from where the excitement was, the Gamemakers would send something in to 'guide' them to a more active area.

That something was usually mutts.

Or fire.

Tully knew he couldn't deal with either of them right now, but it had been an eventful day in the Games – the first day always was – so maybe they'd leave him alone just this once. After all, there were probably over ten tributes left, so he was just one of many. He probably wasn't even on any of the cameras at the moment.

Problematic thoughts had distracted his mind from the need for water for a few moments, but now that he'd worked everything out in his head, the distraction faded away. He swallowed slowly and sat down in the sand. What was the use of walking any farther, anyway? At the level he was functioning at, he'd never get anywhere fast, and night was stealing up.

Even though it wasn't any shelter or comfort at all, he curled up next to one of the dusty bushes, his back to the pathetic-looking plant. Then, he thought of a better plan and, even though his shoulder twinged painfully in protest, he burrowed into the still-warm sand as best he could. It was a little warmer.

Pretty soon the Gamemakers would send in a hovercraft with one of their giant screens to record the day's kills. He hadn't heard the cannons going off, but there were sure to be deaths. Maybe he would recognize some of the faces, and maybe he wouldn't.

He hadn't gotten close to any of the tributes, but he did know some of them by face, if not by name.

He wondered what emotions – if any – he would feel if he recognized any of the tributes.

:::::

Dietrich had scouted out the territory surrounding his oasis – in his thoughts, he'd come to refer to it as being his – and except for seeing the Career pack grouped around the Cornucopia, gloating, the other tributes seemed to have scattered to everywhere except where he was.

Perhaps it was better that way.

The first day had been exhausting, stressful, and traumatic, and waiting a day or more until he found another tribute would be good for his arm. Give it time to heal and he could exercise some of the stiffness that had already set in. Inventory his supplies once more and figure out what was best to do with all of them. Maybe even try to climb the tree and see if he could keep himself hidden there.

Yes, it was a good plan.

In his wandering, he'd thought a few times about what the Gamemakers thought about losing one of their tributes. They probably caught him sporadically on camera, but they no longer had the precision of knowing where he was at all times. A smile crossed his face, but it was more bitter than happy.

Happiness, after all, was next to impossible in the arena.

Around the time that the sky turned from blue to purple, Dietrich made his way back to the oasis. As long as no other tributes were around, it would be the best place to rest for the night. He hadn't spotted any other water holes in his travels, so his oasis could very well be the only one. If that was the case, the Careers could descend on him at any moment. It would be best to enjoy it while he could.

With a thud, his two backpacks hit the ground by the pool of water. No-one was around, and his guard relaxed a little, although it was never all the way down. Too much danger for that, lurking in every corner for that – not only from the tributes, but from the Gamemakers. He chose a small, grassy patch behind the tree for his sleeping area. Not only was it soft, the tree offered a little protection against attacks. At the very least, it would conceal his position long enough for him to wake up and decide what to do.

Dietrich settled himself on the grass, pulling the heat reflective blanket over his legs and shoulders, pulling it back and forth until it covered as much of him as possible. The increase of heat was immediate, but he welcomed it. The night air was already chilly, too much so for his liking.

The anthem of Panem boomed across the desert stillness.

He started and sat up. _What on-?_

Then he remembered. Every night, this would happen. The anthem of Panem would play, while the Capitol seal, and then the faces of that day's dead tributes flashed across the night sky. The first day always had the most casualties, while some days had none. The no-casualty days always bored the audiences, which meant that the Gamemakers would send in mutts or call a 'feast' so satisfy the Capitol's thirst for blood.

Dietrich pulled himself into a sitting position, being careful not to put any weight on his stiff and sore arm, and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. He watched the death roll carefully, counting the faces, figuring out how much the deaths narrowed the field down. There were seven deaths in all, leaving seventeen tributes – including him – to play the field. Not as many as previous Games, but a good chunk of the competition was gone.

All Dietrich felt at the encouraging statistics was a deep, depressing heaviness.

:::::

Hitch silently counted on his fingers as the faces of the newly dead tributes played out in front of him. It wasn't out of a sense of glee, or a morbid tendency. He just wanted to make sure that the number of cannon shots they'd heard earlier that day matched the number of dead. He wasn't happy about the deaths, but he knew they would happen. No use in pretending otherwise.

The girl from District 3 was the first face. Hitch glanced over at Moffitt. She had been his district partner after all. Moffitt's face went dark, and he stared down at the sand that he was sifting through his hands. He shook his head and muttered something under his breath that Hitch didn't catch. He turned his attention back to the sky.

The girl from four was also dead, and the boys from both 5 and 7. Hitch recognized the boy from 5 as being the one he'd hastily thrown an axe at. So he hadn't survived the poor throw after all. Or maybe another Career had done him in. Either way, Hitch felt sorry, but not cripplingly so. He cleared his throat and kept his eyes fixed forward. He sensed that the nightly death roll would be the tensest part of their time as allies.

The deaths reminded them that there could only be one victor.

Both tributes from District 9 were dead, and the girl from 11. Once her face faded from the sky, the seal of Panem was back, a final bit of the anthem, and then the arena was silent once again. None of the three spoke. Each was wrapped up in their own thoughts, and Hitch didn't blame them. For a moment, he wondered why he was even bothering with an alliance.

He'd just have to kill them anyway, and he had good sponsors, so he'd never want for anything.

At least he _hoped_ he had good sponsors. Nothing was certain in the Games.

It was that thought, plus the tiny bits of camaraderie he felt for the both Moffitt and Troy that kept him from breaking up the team right then and there. That and the fact that he was just as intrigued by what Moffitt had up his sleeve as Troy was. And, he had to face it, being in the arena by himself would have been terrible. As it was, loneliness was already pressing in on him.

"We should get some sleep," Troy said, breaking the deafening silence that had been left when the anthem ended. "Tomorrow we can go look for some water and the other tributes." He glanced over at Moffitt, who was still staring at the sand as though it were the most important thing in the arena. "We've only got two blankets, so who wants to take the first watch?"

"I'll do it," Hitch said.

Troy eyed him for a moment and then nodded. "Fine. Wake me up in two hours."

Hitch pulled both blankets from his backpack and handed them to Troy. The cold would help keep him awake enough to be a good look-out, and he really wasn't tired at all. Too much excitement, he guessed. Adrenaline and a sense of impending doom had a way of keeping you up all night. He didn't have any idea how he'd be able to figure when two hours had passed, but maybe Troy's inner clock would wake him up at the right time and Hitch wouldn't have to do a thing. Or, depending on whether or not he felt sleepy, he might end up staying on watch the whole night.

He heard rustling sounds behind him as Troy and Moffitt made themselves comfortable for the next few hours, and then all was quiet. They'd picked a good spot to set up camp for the night. Large, clumped together tree-shrubs and a few pieces of broken wood – obviously a Gamemaker's invention, since the arena hadn't been around long enough to pick up that kind of debris – formed a largish, natural, three-walled room. Hitch sat at the entrance.

Far off, an eerie howl echoed.

More rustling came from behind him.

"Animal?" came Troy's voice.

Hitch twisted around. Both he and Moffitt were sitting up. Sleep wouldn't come easily for any of them. Moffitt nodded. "Some kind of dog, I should say."

"Do you think it's a mutt?" Hitch asked.

"Hard to tell, really. Probably not."

Troy and Hitch both nodded and everyone settled back to their original positions.

But Hitch wasn't sure if Moffitt had really been sure about the dog not being a mutt, or if he'd just said that reassure both himself and them. The more he thought about it, the more frightened he felt. He was in an unfamiliar landscape, probably the strangest place he'd ever seen. There were about fourteen tributes out to get him, along with rabid, wild, unnatural animals.

He'd known about the dangers when he'd volunteered, but now, when he was nearly face-to-face with those dangers, it all seemed different. More immediate and deadly. The truth was that he might not survive the night, despite his allies – or perhaps because of them. Even his sponsors couldn't really help with a mutiny or mutt attack.

He shivered.

Behind him, came the sound of soft sand being moved around and a blanket being thrown aside. He whirled around, axe in hand, but it was only Moffitt – weaponless – crawling over to sit by him. Hitch breathed in and out deeply a few times, letting himself relax again and resumed his watch with the small difference of a partner.

"You can go lie down, you know," Moffitt said after a few moments of silence.

Hitch shook his head. "I couldn't get to sleep if I tried."

Moffitt squinted and looked off into the desert. T_rying to spot the dog that howled, most likely,_ Hitch thought. The idea wasn't reassuring. If Moffitt thought the dog was a threat, then it probably was. "Troy doesn't seem to have a problem," Moffitt said. He hit his fist against the sand. It wasn't a gesture of anger, more boredom or, at the most, frustration. Hitch felt sure that he was thinking about his dead district partner again. "Did you know her well? The girl from your district?" he asked.

Moffitt shook his head, looking into the distance again. "Not really. I only met her a few days ago."

Hitch was surprised. From the way Moffitt had reacted, he'd expected the girl to be at least a good acquaintance, if not an actual friend. Sure, the girl was someone from Moffitt's home district, but if the first time he'd met her was only a couple of days ago, what was up with that?

"I don't want to talk about it," Moffitt said, as if he'd read Hitch's thoughts, or sensed his questions in the way he shifted around. "She was a girl, she was from home, and she was only thirteen. Isn't that reason enough to feel badly over her death?" His voice was quiet, but there was more than a hint of accusation lurking in its depths.

Hitch cleared his throat, wishing for the hundredth time that day that he had some bubblegum to chew. It would keep his throat from getting scratchy with sand and dust and help keep his need for water under control. Maybe he could get a sponsor to send him a stick or two. If he'd had any at the moment, he would've offered some to Moffitt. The proffered candy would have been both a gesture of friendship and a distraction.

Since he had none, he lapsed into silence, Moffitt's words playing over and over in his head.


	10. Second Day, Second Night

As the sky overhead turned from black to pearly grey to light blue, Tully struggled to stay asleep. He didn't want to leave that place of peace and safety and painlessness. But, sleeping forever wasn't possible, and it was the thought of Careers on the prowl that finally woke him up. He was, after all, in a vulnerable position, sleeping out in the open.

The night had been torture. Temperatures had plummeted and the sand had been little to no help. Still, he stayed inside the tight, comforting grasp of the sand. It was better than sleeping directly out in the open. His muscles had started twitching from the cold, and now, as he emerged from the sandy side of the dune, he felt taut as a pulled-back slingshot strap.

His shoulder had gone completely stiff. It hurt just thinking about it.

No food, no water, and no shelter were once again his daily problems. He had no idea where to go, since everything still looked the same, but he started walking anyway. It was more difficult than the first day, though. Twice his vision went black and he felt nauseous, like he wanted to throw up even if there was nothing to throw up inside of him. He didn't feel hungry anymore. Just an overpowering sense of thirst.

It was late afternoon when Tully found the oasis.

He had stumbled, wavered, fallen, and gotten back up for what felt like endless hours. The one thought that drove him, that kept him from staying down when he fell was that unless something really dramatic was going on – and the second day was usually more about regrouping and working out strategy than a lot of deaths – he was on camera. His family was watching, whether they wanted to or not, and he couldn't just collapse in the sand and not get up.

He couldn't just give up.

That, and the fact that if he went unconscious, he'd be free game for any tribute or animal that came upon him, was what kept him going. The sand couldn't go on forever with no break, no water, no shelter, or else the Gamemakers would have a lot of quiet, painless deaths to deal with. And the Capitol audience wouldn't like that, would they?

A greenish haze broke into his vision.

He opened his eyes wider and blinked grit out of them.

_Just a mirage._

But no matter how much he blinked, or how close he came to the mirage, it wouldn't go away. It still took until he was right up beside it, touching the tree and plunging his face into the pool of water for him to believe it was actually there, actually real and it wouldn't fade away. He drank and drank and drank and it felt so good to have water slipping down his throat and reviving his parched body.

After several minutes of drinking, washing his face, soaking his feet, and applying the warm water to his shoulder, he left the water and took stock of his surroundings. One tree, large. The trunk looked mostly smooth, but there were a few bits of bark he could use as a foothold. There were also several bushes. He stared at them for a moment, and then ripped one of the branches off. It was perfect for his slingshot strap.

Finally, he'd be able to use what weapon worked best for him.

Using the knife, he quickly whittled down the pronged branch to the right proportions, and held the strap to it, just to make sure. He cut out a hole in either end of the strap. Then, he undid one of his boot laces and using first his chin, then his foot for bracing, he managed to tie the strap on tightly enough for use as a weapon.

Even if it wasn't the best slingshot he'd ever made, Tully was satisfied. Content, even.

He pulled the strap a few times, testing the stretchiness and almost smiled. Whoever had sent him the slingshot strap knew what he or she was doing. It was the perfect width, length, and stretch to make an excellent weapon. Or maybe it had just been blind luck. Either way, he was grateful. He had no delusions about what his slingshot could do against swords and spears and axes, but if he ever made it home to District 12, he'd hunt down the giver and thank them.

He sighed and, now that the work of making the slingshot was over, worked over what to do next. To one side of him, but still a ways away was the Cornucopia. Every so often, he could see figures moving around by it, but nobody was even looking in the direction of the oasis, as far as he could tell. For the moment, he was safe.

And that's when the spasms hit him.

The slingshot and knife dropped from his hands as he bent over, gasping with pain and retching out all the water he'd just drunk. But it wasn't enough. The pain gripped his insides and squeezed hard. Every second, its grip grew tighter and tighter and then he was crying out in pain and sinking to the ground, black spots swimming in front of his eyes.

_I'm going to die. And my family is going to see it._

It was the last thing he thought as he slipped into the comfortable blackness of lost consciousness.

Pain. Agonizing pain.

Mouth as dry as sandpaper.

Hand clutched around something. Something wood.

Tully blinked once, then twice, and finally opened his eyes all the way.

He couldn't think, he couldn't talk, he could hardly breath.

_What happened?_

He looked around him. The oasis was still there. Tree behind him, water in front of him, bushes to the right of him, and the Cornucopia far away to his left. In his hand was something, a weapon, that he vaguely remembered making. His mind searched for the right word. A slingshot. Yes, that was it. He remembered having a knife as well, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Then it all came back to him.

The water, the slingshot, the pain.

_How long have I been here?_

It couldn't have been long. The sun was still in the same position he remembered seeing it before. Unless he'd stayed unconscious for an entire day and night. He shook his head at the thought, then wished he hadn't. A splitting headache gripped him and he almost passed out again. His stomach still felt churned up and tight, but it wasn't as bad as what he remembered. His shoulder throbbed, but when didn't it?

_I didn't sleep through a day. If I'd done that, someone would've gotten me. Mutt or tribute or something. I was probably only out for a few minutes. That's not so bad._

It was the water. He knew that. He'd been fine, except for being so thirsty, until he'd drunk the water. Throwing it all up had been the best thing he could've possibly done – although it hadn't been intentional, his body had just done it without any thought, which meant that there was most likely some terrible poison in the pool – but he was now thirstier than ever, with no means of assuaging that thirst.

He had to get out of sight. Right now, he was weak as a newborn kitten and anyone, even a twelve-year-old tribute, could kill him and he'd hardly be able to lift a finger to stop them. The tree was his only chance, but just thinking of climbing it made his stomach ache in protest. But it was his only chance at surviving a little longer in the arena, and the top branches looked comfortable enough. He'd have shelter, at least.

The climbing of the tree proved more difficult than he'd expected.

Handholds were quite good, but his weakness made it next to impossible for him to pull himself up.

_Fine. Just take it slow. Rest a little, and then try again._

Tully was used to relaxing, going slowly, and conserving his energy and strength for when he needed it the most, so it wasn't as tedious for him as it might have been for any other tribute. The need for safety and concealment pressed on him, of course, but it would've been foolish to attempt anything too soon, get halfway up, and go plummeting back to the ground.

He would rest, wait, and try again soon.

:::::

Dietrich felt defeated.

In his opinion, the Gamemakers had either made the arena too large, or they were keeping all the tributes away from each other for some odd reason. He was growing impatient with the endless searching and waiting, and he couldn't find any other signs of life anywhere. Perhaps he wasn't casting out his net wide enough, but it was also possible that the Gamemakers were purposely keeping tributes away from him.

They couldn't know his plan – he hadn't even fully worked it out himself – but their minds were sharp enough. Maybe it was all a waste of time. Cutting his tracker out, traipsing around for endless hours, lugging two backpacks with a painful arm and some weapons.

The threat of imminent death hung over his head as always, especially since the Gamemakers probably all wanted him dead right now, but in some ways, it was almost boring. It was only the second day, true, but there been no disasters, no mutts, and no tributes. There was sand, bushes, an oasis, and that was about it. He could have been anywhere. There was nothing in this arena that spelled 'the Hunger Games' besides the Cornucopia.

He had weapons, plenty of supplies, and water.

Things couldn't get much better considering where he was, but, he reflected, they could get a whole lot worse. And he was determined to make them worse, where the Gamemakers were concerned. By the end of the Games, he wanted President Snow so angry and frustrated that he wouldn't know what to do.

Because a moment of a tyrant's indecision could lead to rebellion.

:::::

"Disappearing water holes," Moffitt said.

Hitch stared at the water hole. It didn't look like anything special, just a shallow pit filled with water, surrounded by sand. The water was clear and didn't look like there was anything wrong or special with it, but in the arena, looks could be more than deceiving. They could be deadly.

Troy was looking at the water hole too. "Are you sure, Moffitt? Doesn't look like that to me."

"Positive," Moffitt said. "My father worked on the designs. Judging on the water level, it should take at least six hours for the water to disappear. I can't do anything until every last drop is gone, so I suggest we make camp here. It's getting late, after all."

Hitch looked up at the sky. It was growing darker, just as Moffitt said.

Their position wasn't all that good, since it was right out in the open, but he guessed they were far enough away from the other tributes to really need a good shelter.

They shared a bit of the food, strict rationings, of course, and then took turns keeping watch. Hitch felt the need for sleep, so he let Troy take the first watch. After all, the older tribute had trusted him to keep watch while he slept, so Hitch figured he could extend the same courtesy. He was next to positive that it was a courtesy that wouldn't get him killed, and could probably keep him alive.

:::::

It had taken Tully over an hour to get up to the top of the tree, between rests and working up his courage for another go, but in the end, he'd made it. Just in time, too, since only a few minutes after he'd concealed himself in the branches, another tribute entered the perimeter of the oasis, threw down his supplies, and settled himself with an air of ownership.

Rocks in one hand, slingshot in the other, Tully considered shooting the tribute, but when his hands trembled so hard he couldn't brace the weapon, let alone aim and fire it. In a way, he was relieved. Even if he'd made the slingshot for the express purpose of killing people – well, that and shooting any animals he might happen to come by – he didn't want to unless absolutely necessary. Self defence, in his mind, was the only acceptable reason to kill a person.

He wouldn't murder people to get sponsors or impress other tributes.

That was stupid, sick, and sadistic all in one.

:::::

The anthem of Panem rang out over the desert.

_The second night,_ Dietrich thought. _It goes by quickly._

Deaths for the day numbered exactly one. The boy tribute from District 8. Perhaps his death had been bloody enough to satisfy the crowds, but Dietrich didn't think so. It was early in the Games, and the Gamemakers liked saving the best for last – or at least later – so perhaps the mutts or sandstorms or whatever they had planned wouldn't be released tonight.

Still, Dietrich slept with one hand on his spears.


	11. Waterholes, Trackers, And Allies

Hitch woke up to the sound of frustrated grunting and metal against metal.

He bolted upright – you never woke up calmly or slowly in the arena – and found Moffitt working over one of the wire overshoes they'd found in their backpacks. He was pounding the wire with one of Hitch's axes, obviously trying to break it apart. For what end, Hitch couldn't see, but since District 3 was immersed in technology, Moffitt probably had some idea for the wire that was more useful than a wire overshoe.

Moffitt swore under his breath.

"Having fun?" Hitch asked, grinning.

Moffitt glanced up at him, tried to glare, and failed.

"We slept through the last draining. This wire has to be ready by the next time, or else it wouldn't do much good to sit around here any longer. Supplies are running low. We should get on the move as soon as possible," he finished, returning to the wire. One end had been slightly untwisted, but the job looked nearly impossible.

Hitch was sure that some, if not most, of the reason that Moffitt wanted to be on the move soon was because of the Gamemakers. A bunch of top-scored tributes sitting around, working on some technical plan wasn't interesting. Those same tributes running from mutts or fireballs was.

"How much longer do we have?" Hitch asked.

Moffitt didn't look up from the metal twists. "An hour or so, I should say. The water's at half level already. I've been watching it." He nodded toward the water, but his eyes and attention remained focused on the wire in his hands. Hitch decided it was probably best not to distract him with how time was ticking. But Moffitt didn't seem to mind being watched, so that's what he did. There was nothing better to do, since food was getting low – he wasn't really hungry anyway – and Troy was still asleep.

"This whole thing would be a lot easier if I had some pliers," Moffitt said. He was thinking aloud, and it gave Hitch an idea. He didn't know how many Capitol people would be up at this time in the morning – did they even sleep through the Games? Perhaps they had some kind of medicine that kept them going through the days – but it was worth a shot anyway.

Hitch stood up, dusted himself off, ran a hand through his hair to get rid of as much sand as he could and then stared up at the still hazy, blue-black sky. "Hear that, sponsors?" he said, loud and clear. "We need pliers for Moffitt's brilliant plan to work. Think you could send us some?"

A pause, and then he heard the short, sharp whistling sounds.

Silver flickered in the sky, seeming to appear from nowhere – which, in fact, it probably did – and gently drifted down to Hitch, taking on the shape of a tiny parachute as it came closer. He grabbed it as soon as it was within reach and unscrewed the plastic container that was hanging off the end. Sure enough, a pair of good, strong pliers lay on the black plastic inside. He pulled it out and tossed it to Moffitt.

Moffitt looked up at him and smiled. "Thanks." He got to work, attacking the wires, and it was obvious that he'd have it all laid out on the sand in ten minutes or less. Probably was working with pliers before his third birthday.

"Piece of cake," Hitch said and dropped back onto the sand. He drew the parachute and container closer to him. "Think we should keep this?" he asked, pushing it closer to Moffitt. "I know it's guided by remote, so maybe you could do something with it."

Moffitt shook his head, concentrating on the pliers. "You should thank your sponsors," he said absently.

_Oh, yeah. That._

"Thank you, sponsors," he said, again loud and clear, giving the sky his most winning smile.

Troy stirred in his sleep, then sat up. "What was that?" he said, squinting up at Hitch, voice heavy and grainy from sleep. Hitch explained about the pliers, and Moffitt's plan, since Moffitt didn't seem to be in an information-sharing mood at the moment. All his attentions were focused on the wire, and he was sweating with a combination of the exertion – even with the pliers, it was hard to jerk the wires apart – and the swiftly rising sun.

"The waterhole's about ready," Moffitt said, untwisting the last bit of overshoe. "We'll all need to dig now." He pointed to a spot in the sand a few feet away from the waterhole. "About there, I should think." The wire now lay on the sand, in a mostly straight line, and Moffitt carried it with him as they went to the spot he'd pointed out. He patted the sand, and they got digging.

It took several frustrating minutes of digging until they hit Moffitt's objective – a thick metal pipe. Frustrating because the sand kept slipping back in and all they had to dig were their hands. Hitch considered asking for shovels, but he knew they'd be exorbitantly expensive, and he didn't want to push his luck with stuff they didn't actually need. Anyway, if the sponsors had half a brain – and he wasn't so sure they did – they'd be able to see the need for shovels and send them if they wished.

Evidently, they didn't wish.

"They aren't usually so obvious, of course," Moffitt said, gesturing to the pipe and speaking of the Gamemakers. "But these disappearing waterholes are a new development. They didn't have time to work out all the issues. Lucky for us," he added.

"I'll need a few minutes to get this right," he said. "Nothing you can do now but wait. You see, when electricity goes through his pipe to let the waterhole know it can go back on, these wires will fry the signal, and make it so that the waterhole will stay on permanently. Mixed signals, if you will." He used the pliers to wrap the wire tightly around the pipe.

Hitch hardly understood any of it, but he was more than willing to trust a tribute from District 3 over his own limited knowledge of technology. In just a few moments, Moffitt had the wire wrapped all around the section of pipe they'd managed to unearth, and as soon as he made the final adjustment, he jumped back. "Don't plan on getting electrocuted," he commented as he sat down by Hitch and Troy.

"How do you know this will work?" Troy said. He was still wary.

"Nothing's definite," Moffitt said, "but based on what I learned from my father's charts, and some know-how of my own, I'd say there's a good chance of this plan succeeding." He looked at Troy, as did Hitch.

"So that's all we're going on? Odds and ends." Troy shook his head. "Great."

Neither of the other two said anything in return.

A few minutes later, the waterhole began to fill with water. Hitch knew it was too soon to celebrate the success of Moffitt's plan, since the water would still have come whether or not it had worked, but he felt a quiver to hope run through him. If they had a permanent supply of water, at least some of their problems were over.

Once the hole was completely filled, Moffitt went to work, pushing all the sand they'd dug out back into place. "Wouldn't want anyone else to get the same idea, would we?" he asked rhetorically. "Now we need to get out here," he said. "Do some hunting, or else we won't be sitting here safe for much longer." He turned around and looked at the others. "We can bury the backpacks near here and just take the weapons."

Troy conceded. "Fine. We'll go."

He knew as well as any of them what dangers staying in one place could bring.

:::::

The absence of cold woke Tully.

First, he was aware of the sun. Its warmth touched him with a gentleness he hadn't felt in what seemed like weeks, and it eased over his chilled, stiff, pained body. Next came the pain. His shoulder still hurt – he had accepted that it probably would hurt for his duration in the arena – but his stomach was worse. Much worse. Evidently, enough poison had seeped into his blood stream before he threw it up, and now it burned with the intensity of a fire.

And, lastly, was the wakefulness pushing his eyes open again.

Another day in the arena.

He turned over to one side, and the next instant he was falling through the air.

The ground crunched painfully against his bad shoulder, pushing all the wind out of him in one shot. He was dazed, confused, still sleepy, and he wasn't even sure what had happened. The only thought going through his head was that the last thing he'd seen before he went to sleep was another tribute. Was he still here? Where was he? Where were _any_ of them?

Tully scrambled to his feet, as fast as an aching body, wounded shoulder, and bad stomach would allow him. He felt better lying on the ground, but that wasn't an option. Because he'd caught a glimpse of that other tribute running towards him. Now he turned and saw the boy full-on. The tribute from District 6. He had a spear raised, and Tully knew.

He knew everything was over.

Then the spear crashed down on his head and everything went black.

:::::

Dietrich moved quickly, but calmly.

Taking the tracker out of his own arm had prepared him for what the boy he'd come across – from District 12, if he remembered correctly – would need. He'd already torn several strips off his jacket, in preparation for situations like this, and now he pulled a couple out. Then, he pulled the dagger out of his belt, hesitated for only a moment, and then, with one quick move, made the cut and tore out the boy's tracker.

It was better that he was unconscious.

Since the boy didn't make any gasps of pain, Dietrich felt compelled – however subconsciously – to do it for him. He closed his eyes for just a moment. He hated this. The whole thing. Sure, he was doing good, in a way, but if the Hunger Games had never been invented, there wouldn't be any need for this kind of thing. Then he shook his head and opened his eyes. He was here to save a tribute's life, not philosophize.

He was just about to bind up the wound, now gushing blood, when a sound caught his attention.

His senses on full alert, his eyes darted around in every direction.

And then he saw them, coming out from behind a dune. Not the Careers, but the other tribute pack. There were two Careers, who'd chosen not to join the others for some reason, and the boy from District 3. Dietrich hadn't seen anything of them since the Cornucopia, but he knew they could be dangerous.

All the more reason to help-

An arrow zinging past his head stopped his thoughts.

"That's Tully!" he heard one of the three shout, and they ran even faster. Dietrich thought fast. The shout had been more happy, relieved, and angry – against him – than a battle cry, which meant those tributes knew something of the kid from District 12. Perhaps he was even on their team and had somehow gotten separated. They'd take care of him, he was sure.

So he ran. Perhaps it was the coward's way out, but he was more help to other tributes this way.

Alive, not dead.

Another arrow brushed past him, so close he was sure that his hair would have a stripe running through it. He tripped on the sand, despite his overshoes, and turned around for an instant. The boy who had shouted was at Tully's side, kneeling down. The District 3 tribute had another arrow nocked and ready to fly. The last of the three, Troy, from District 2, was standing a few yards away from Tully, glaring at Dietrich.

He stared back for a moment, and then the District 3 boy released another arrow and he was off.

Running, always running.


	12. Plans

Twilight was falling fast.

"It gets dark quickly here," Hitch said. He saw Troy and Moffitt exchange glances and he felt stupid. Of course it got dark quickly – if that's what the Gamemakers wanted, that's what would happen. Things had been pretty quiet for the past couple of days, and darkness made everything more dramatic and terrifying.

At the moment, they were still at the oasis. The Cornucopia could be made out through the deepening darkness and Hitch was sure that the Careers were grouped there. It made sense, since all the supplies were gathered there, besides the ones that other tributes had taken. But how were they getting water? It was still early in the Games, so they were probably making do with what was in the supply packs.

Pretty soon, though, they'd run out of water, and this oasis would be the first thing they'd hunt out.

Tully moaned a little. Hitch tore his attention away from the Cornucopia and glanced over at him. They'd laid him out under the tree after they got him bandaged up, but he was still out of it. He'd opened his eyes a couple of times, but they always closed again. He was clutching his stomach and rolling back and forth restlessly.

Moffitt, who had seated himself beside him in an hourly vigil, moved closer.

"He's feverish," he said. "Bring me some of that water, Troy."

Troy might've been the other leader of the group, but when it came to medical issues, Moffitt took the lead. Troy walked over to the pool. After tasting it earlier on, Moffitt had pronounced it poisonous, but he had deemed it all right for uses such as washing and cooling down. They didn't want to risk their precious water purification tablets until they absolutely had to.

Hitch was more glad than ever that he'd stuck with keeping Moffitt on the team, because now that the opportunity to have Tully on the team had presented itself, he needed to actually keep him alive long enough to lay it all out. And Moffitt was the most helpful in that regard. Hitch was content to let him fuss over Tully while he and Troy figured out their next move.

Once the water was with Moffitt and Tully, Troy walked over and stood by Hitch.

"Why are we wasting our time and energy on him?" he asked, throwing a nod at Tully. His voice was hard and frustrated. Hitch had expected this conversation, once the first flush of danger from the attacking tribute had passed. Especially since the issue with Moffitt. It was easy to see that Troy didn't trust any of them, but he was more comfortable with Hitch than the other two.

"I understand about Moffitt," he added. "He's been useful, with that water hole, and he'd do a good job of fixing us up if we got hurt. But what about that kid from District 12? What good's he going to do?" Troy put his hands on his hips and cocked his head, staring at Hitch. Hitch fought the urge to look away. He couldn't back down if he expected to win this little battle.

The only problem was that he didn't know what to say.

Hitch wanted Tully on the team, but he couldn't really explain why. Sure, he was okay with knives, but that didn't really mean anything. He was willing to bet that he was an excellent shot with that slingshot they'd found him with, but what good was a slingshot against arrows or spears or axes? He probably had some practical know-how, but since he knew enough about District 12 to know it wasn't a desert, that was neither here nor there.

No, he wanted Tully on his team because of his character. Tully wasn't the kind of guy to leave his friends or allies in the lurch, and since there were so many variables in the arena, that's who Hitch wanted most on his team. Not the warrior tribute from District 2, or even the smart tribute from District 3. Either of them could go off and leave him at a moment's notice, but Tully was someone who, he felt, would stick with him.

Perhaps that wasn't the best thing, since they were in the Hunger Games, but he brushed that aside for the moment.

As best he could, he explained it all to Troy, adding in what he knew – or thought he knew – about Tully's skill with knives and slingshots. He left out the bit about Troy and Moffitt leaving him, since he knew it wouldn't go over well.

"At least give him a chance," he said. "He's in no condition to stab us in the back."

"Yeah, well, if you do this kind of thing too much, you _will_ get stabbed one of these days," Troy said. Hitch wasn't sure if he meant that one of his teammates would do it, or someone he took in and trusted, someone who turned out to be a traitor. But, then, wouldn't they all be traitors in the end?

Troy said nothing more, and Hitch let the subject drop. For now, Tully was in.

Through all the talking and thinking, the night had well and truly come on and the temperature had dropped drastically once again. Hitch turned back and went in closer to the pool where everyone else was gathered at the moment. He wanted to light a fire, but if they did, the Careers would certainly see it and go on a killing spree. Maybe that's what the Gamemakers were doing – making it so cold that they would light a fire.

Well, Hitch wasn't going to fall for it. Let some idiot get himself killed.

"Got a blanket?" Moffitt asked. "We should keep him warm."

"What about the fever?" Hitch said.

"I've cooled him off as much as possible. If we leave him out in these freezing temperatures, he'll probably die." Moffitt accepted the blanket that Hitch held out to him. A few feet away, Troy shook his head and turned his back to them a little. Hitch knew what he was thinking. There were only two blankets, and if Tully had one, where did that leave them? But Hitch didn't care. Troy could have the other blanket. He wouldn't take one, and he was sure Moffitt wouldn't. Not with a sick person who needed one.

"I think he might've gone into shock from that wound," Moffitt said. "His shoulder's a bit banged up as well, but it's an older cut. Probably got it at the Cornucopia. I'd say his stomach's upset as well, since he keeps shifting around and holding it." He shook his head. "Why would someone stab his arm of all place? That tribute had every opportunity to kill him."

Hitch had no idea. He was too cold to think straight.

He hugged himself hard and hunched over, trying to conserve body heat.

The anthem of Panem blasted out over the desert and the glowing seal of the Capitol lit the night sky.

They all watched, except Tully, but there had been no deaths that day. Troy looked over his shoulder at them, a flicker of fear on his face. Hitch knew why – he shared that fear as well. Since there'd been no deaths, the audience would be bored. Ready and waiting for whatever the Gamemakers wanted to do next. And since dragging out the Games was no fun when you could have a bunch of quick, bloody deaths, Hitch was certain something would come that night.

"We've got to keep moving," he said.

"Got to do more than that," Troy said, standing up. "We have to go take on the Careers over there or some other tributes unless we want to be chewed to bits by mutts or fried by some fireball or electric storm." Without another word, he gathered up a couple knives and an axe. "Let's move it."

Hitch knew he was right. They'd have to go engage a tribute or four in battle. Some of them could die. But it wasn't that thought that made him sick to his stomach. It was the thought that were actually going out and hunting down other tributes. They were going to kill people out of choice – and necessity – now instead of self-defence or some crazed feeling at the Cornucopia.

There was no use thinking about it, though. That was just how the Games worked.

"What are we doing with him?" Troy asked, pointing his chin toward Tully since his hands were full.

Hitch paused from hanging axes on his belt and looked over at the half-dead tribute as well.

"He can't come," Moffitt said. "One of us needs to stay here and look after the supplies, as well as him." He paused a moment, and then said. "I'll do it."

Hitch accepted his offer without hesitation. Moffitt was right. Someone needed to watch the supplies, since he and Troy couldn't very well lug them all into a battle with the Careers – the best battle option at the moment since besides Tully's attacker; he hadn't seen any other tributes. Plus, Moffitt probably wasn't all too keen on fighting just then, because even though he might be a genius at strategy and snares, he wasn't a Career and fighting probably wasn't something he was looking forward to.

Troy nodded as well, and they set off.

Hitch steeled himself for what was to follow.

:::::

Dietrich figured that his best option at the moment was to keep on the move. Now that the mix of Careers and that District 3 tribute had found the oasis, it was no longer a safe place for him to stay. And the Careers most likely knew about it as well. If he kept on the move, he could find other tributes who were on their own, and it would also make it harder for the Gamemakers to find him. He'd been too vulnerable, staying at the oasis all the time.

There'd been no deaths that day.

He would've been more worried if his tracker had been in, but as it was, the Gamemakers couldn't do much.

He hoped.

There was a low rumble from the sky. He looked up and saw that the velvety black sky was turning red and angry. They knew his general location. They could send some kind of storm and catch him in it. Dietrich shivered, partly from cold and partly from the fear that suddenly seized him, and moved on. Best to keep walking.

The area around him was dull and featureless.

Until the ground split open almost under his feet.

He skidded back from the edge and fell to the ground.

Creatures bounded from the hole in the ground.

Mutts.

He got to his feet a second before they reached him, but he knew it was too late. Or, it would've been too late if they'd been interested in him. But instead, they ran right past him, sometimes right on top of him, and the next thing he knew, he was staring as the sharp-toothed, wild-eyed, spiky-furred animals disappeared from his sight.

They were going in the direction of the oasis.

No attention had been given to him, so he wasn't the target. It was whoever was at the oasis, and that meant the tributes he'd seen there earlier, if they hadn't moved on. Anger filled him once again at the Gamemakers machinations and without another thought, he gripped his spear more tightly and ran after the now long-gone mutts.

They weren't programmed to attack him. He would be relatively safe, especially since his tracker was out. All he wanted to do now was help those tributes fight off the mutts – even if they had taken shots at him – because by doing so, he'd be working against the Capitol once again. The audience would see that he'd come in to help in the fight, that he wasn't about to be bound by the Gamemakers' invisible laws.

If it was his last act of defiance, he wanted it to be a good one.


	13. Mutts

The not-so-far-off howling of what Moffitt could only take to be mutts sent a shiver down his spine. A chill ran all the way through him, raising the hairs on his arm. It had been sheer idiocy for both of the Careers in their group to go off and leave an inpet District 3 tribute – him – to look after and guard an incapacitated ally.

He realized that now, but there was little he could do about it. So, it really would be all up to him if and when the mutts struck.

Then he saw them.

They came out of the darkness, eyes glowing with an unnatural light. If they had been real animals – not some twisted invention of the Gamemakers – Moffitt would've labeled them as rabid. But the glint in these creature's eyes was not a spark of insanity but a carefully engineered trick calculated to terrify the tributes.

As far as he went, it was working.

"Wake up, Tully!"

Moffit shook Tully, hard, but never took his eyes off the mutts that were creeping closer. If he took his eyes off them, they would pounce, and maybe if they stayed off his back long enough, he could wake Tully up. He was certain that the Gamemakers were using the slow approach to draw out the terror and suspense.

"Wake up!"

Tully was in little condition to roll over, let along fight, but desperation and fear rose up in Moffitt to such an extent that it blinded nearly every other thought. The closer the jackal mutts came – he recognized the animals they'd been based on from one of his father's books – the more a feeling of terror welled up inside him.

_You can fight it. You have to. That's simply all there is to it._

"What-wha-?" he heard Tully mumble.

"Tully, there are mutts grouping around us. Get your slingshot, get a knife, get something because they'll be on us in a few seconds," Moffitt muttered, still keeping his eyes intent on the mutts, but never making eye contact. They were close enough now that he could smell their rancid fur and hear their growls. Low and gravelly and dangerous.

His bow was in his hand, arrow ready.

"Tully..."

He wanted Tully up and ready to defend himself more to stay safe, than to have a partner watching his back. Thought that would be-

The leader of the pack sprang.

Moffitt unleashed his arrow and caught the vicious animal in the throat – he was too close to miss – while at the same time he felt Tully shifting behind him. He hadn't realized he'd been backing up as the mutts advanced, but if he was close enough to feel Tully, he must have been doing just that. He could only pray that Tully was moving into a defensive position, not turning over in his sleep.

Pray, and slash at a few more mutts.

Because the pack leader's pounce and his unleashed arrow had released what felt like hell on earth.

Mutts jumped at him in endless numbers. He had no time to think, he just acted, letting arrow after arrow fly from his bow. He always hit his target. Missing was not an option, and at any rate, he was too close to make such a thing physically possible.

The fact that he wasn't being attacked from the back told him far more about Tully's status than a quick glance would've.

As soon as the last arrow was sent off into the rabid creatures, a knife was in his hand. He could hardly see anything past the fur and teeth and the blood dripping down his hands – mutts' blood, not his – and the eyes. Always the eyes. Glaring at him, capturing him, shining a reflective, harsh light. Despite his limited vision, it seemed as though at least one more person were helping slash through the pack.

Had Troy and Hitch returned?

The question registered in his mind for only an instant before his senses were pulled back to what was immediately before him.

Howls and shouts and biting, snapping teeth.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

Mutt bodies littered the ground, but all the live animals had vanished. The sand shifted a moment later and the bodies disappeared, but not before Moffitt grabbed one – much as he hated to – and gripped it hard as he could. He couldn't let the Gamemakers take away all the bodies. He wanted one to show Troy, to prove to him that he and Tully were-

Tully.

Even though Moffitt wanted to drop on the sand and sleep away the tautness of his nerves and the way his entire body trembled, he had to check on Tully first. It only took a moment's turn to see him. He was sitting on the sand, a dazed expression on his face. _Probably in shock,_ Moffitt thought. _ It's a wonder he hadn't gone into shock before this._

He threw the mutt onto the sand, dropped to his knees, and crawled a few inches to sit beside Tully.

Standing was unthinkable at the moment.

Just like him, the other tribute's hands were covered in dried mutt blood but other than that, he seemed fine. A knife was tightly clutched in his good arm. Moffitt tried to break the fingers' grip, but Tully had held it for too long, too tight for that to work. They'd have to soak his hand in water for Moffitt's attempts to have any effect.

"Tully? Can you hear me?"

Moffitt repeated the question half-a-dozen times before the words seemed to break into Tully's haze, and he blinked, and then looked at Moffitt. He looked like a lost, little boy and Moffitt felt his throat clench up. From what he could tell, Tully was only fourteen or fifteen. What right had the Gamemakers to send children as young as that into a carefully controlled right to the death?

_They have every right. It's their arena._

:::::

Tully had no idea where he was.

All he knew was that the night air was too cold, and there was blood on his hands, and a strange tribute was kneeling beside him, asking him questions. The last few hours were an unintelligible blur in his mind. Falling out of a tree, being attacked, a long space of blissful peace and quiet, and then fighting mutts until his good arm was about ready to fall off.

And who _was_ this other tribute?

"Who-?" He couldn't get out more. His throat was closed off and scratchy. It hurt to talk.

But the tribute understood anyway. "I'm Moffitt. District 3."

_Moffitt. District 3._

Tully nodded a little, although the words had no bearing on his thoughts at the moment.

He couldn't see the point in any of this.

He looked around, searching, making sure the mutts were gone. Because a terror suddenly seized him, so great and so heavy, that the mutts would return. That he and Moffitt wouldn't be ready to fight them because they wouldn't expect it and they'd all die. Every last one of them. But all that met his eyes was sand and a tree and a pool. A little bit of remembering came back to him. He was in the oasis he'd originally come to.

The water. The water was poison. Did Moffitt know that?

"The water-" Pushing the words past his dry, cracked throat was more painful than he would've imagined, but he pressed on. Moffitt had to know. No-one deserved to suffer those aching cramps. Not even his worst enemy, not even Livia. "The water is poisoned."

Moffitt half-smiled. "I know. I tested it when we got here."

_We?_

But it wasn't important and it hurt too much to talk and Tully was so tired that he let the question drop. All he wanted was sleep. So, he sank to the ground, felt his cheek rub against a blanket – he hadn't known there were blankets in the desert – closed his eyes, and let all his worries about mutts and strange tributes fade away.

He didn't care about any of it, except drowning his pain in sleep.

:::::

Moffitt pulled another blanket over Tully.

He glanced down at the ground, making sure the mutt was still there – it was – and then crawled over to the pool to watch the hot, gritty, stiff dried blood off his hands. Besides the mutt carcass, which he felt to be something of a necessity where Troy was concerned, he didn't want anything more to do with the mutts. If he never saw the things again, it would be too soon.

The water splashed over his hands and gradually the black redness slipped away and his hands were back to their usual tanned selves. He splashed a bit over his face, being careful to keep his eyes and mouth closed, and when he opened them again, another tribute was sitting across the small pool, staring at him.

Despite his still-trembling legs, he darted to his feet.

As he did so, his mind raced. When he'd watched other reapings, he'd taken care to memorize every tribute, both their district and their name. But they'd looked cleaner, fitter, and calmer, and it had proved difficult to match those people to the hunted tributes in the arena. Still, after only a moment, he placed this tribute, partly because he'd seen him before. Only a few days ago.

"Dietrich," he said. "From District 6."

The tribute mulled over that for a moment and then nodded, short and curt.

"You helped us with the mutts, didn't you?" Moffitt said. It was a wild guess, but he was sure he was right.

Again Dietrich hesitated, but finally nodded.

"Thanks," Moffitt said. "We'd have copped it if you hadn't come up just then."

He considered offering a word of truce or alliance, but Troy would probably hit the top of the arena force field if he did, so he kept his words in his mind. Didn't allow them to make it to his mouth. But he still wished to show his gratitude. "Do you need supplies?" he asked. They had plenty, relatively speaking, so sharing some with a fellow tribute – especially one who'd rendered them such a service, for apparently no reason – wouldn't be an issue.

At least he hoped it wouldn't.

Dietrich shook his head. "I have plenty," he said.

When Dietrich refused his help, frustration build inside Moffitt. It was unexplainable, but it was there nonetheless. "Why did you attack Tully?" he shouted across the water. "Why did you hit his arm and nothing else?" He'd wanted the answer to that ever since they'd found the younger tribute, but he hadn't thought he'd get a chance to ask. Now his chance was here, and Dietrich wasn't answering.

Instead, he turned and left the oasis as quietly as he'd come.

"Coward!" Moffitt shouted. "Nothing but a coward!"

He fell back down on the sand and stared after Dietrich's retreating back. His head buzzed and spun. Why had he just lashed out at the one person who'd saved them? Sure, Tully was suffering from shock and near-unconsciousness most of the time because of the wound Dietrich had given him, but, in a way, he was certain there was more to the situation than met the eye.

And now he'd most likely never have another chance to ask him.

:::::

Dietrich's jaw was clenched tightly.

He'd helped those tributes and what did he get? Anger. Hate, even.

He stalked across the sand, rigid with all the emotions that ran through him like sand through his fingers. But what could he do? From that tribute's point of view, he'd viciously attacked another tribute, leaving him with a nasty wound while not taking his life. How could he compete against that?

He'd never say why he'd done what he did. If the Gamemakers hadn't figured things out yet, he didn't want to help them along. And, anyway, why did he was he concerned? He'd probably never see any of those tributes again, he didn't want allies for more than one reason, and he worked better on his own anyway.

All he needed to do was accept that his time in the arena would be lonely.

Bereft of any friends or aid other than what he did for himself.

The sooner he accepted that fact and stopped worrying about what other people thought, the better.


	14. Setback

When Hitch had set off with Troy for the Careers at the Cornucopia, he'd been confidant.

They could handle this.

But now he was having serious doubts. It had all started out so well – the two rogue Careers going out after the bigger pack (of which there were still three, since he'd killed the girl from four), ready for a fight. The audience back at the Capitol would be at the edge of their seats, wondering just what was going to happen. After all, the main pack had superior numbers, but both he and Troy had shown themselves to be good fighters at the Cornucopia.

Yes, he had a feeling this fight would be one the audience would remember.

He and Troy were at the top of a sand dune, lying on their stomachs, looking down at the Cornucopia and the tributes milling around. From what he could see, there were four of them. The Careers, and one other tribute. A girl. He couldn't place her at the moment – Moffitt would've been able to, he was sure – but she was an unexpected addition to the pack.

Hitch felt the sand rubbing against his shirt, almost against his skin, and shifted again, trying to get comfortable. Sand ran down the side of the dune, and he watched it go. The next instant, Troy's elbow was in his side. "Watch it," Troy hissed. "Quit moving around, will you? You'll give away our position."

Hitch rolled his eyes and glared at the sand in front of his hands. Troy was right, but that didn't mean he had to rub everyone's noses in the fact. After all, this whole alliance thing was _temporary_, a fact Troy would do well to remember. Both of them were Careers, both of them had nearly equal chances of winning, and he wasn't just going to fall over and let Troy walk away with everything he'd worked so hard to get.

The reason for his unease came from watching the Careers.

They were relaxed – laughing and talking and occasionally eating – fiddling around with their weapons as though it was nothing. Hitch had known about their skills before, of course, but seeing them in the arena, handling the deadly weapons as though they were nothing, was another jolt of reality to add to the list he'd been hit with over the past few days. "How do you want to do this?" he asked Troy.

Not answering immediately, Troy looked around him.

"What did you think we'd do?" Troy asked, his voice a mix of sarcasm and genuine questioning. "We brought the weapons, but I don't know what we two could do against all those fanatics. It'd be a suicide mission," he added, keeping his voice low. Sound travelled far at night.

Hitch bit his lip. "We're stuck," he said. Then, he swallowed his pride and said what he should've said first. "I didn't think things through well enough." He clutched some sand in his hand, feeling the momentary solidness of the stuff give way to grains slipping through his fingers. "Sorry."

Troy shook his head back and forth, chewing one side of his mouth. "It was a risk any way we sliced it. I was the one who suggested this whole thing in the first place. We should've both thought about this more carefully." He huffed out a frustrated breath. "Now they'll be expecting some kind of showdown which we aren't prepared to give them."

"Wasn't your fault," Hitch said after a moment. "We kind of both lost our heads back at camp with Tully and thinking about mutts coming after us. At least we're doing something right now."

He kept his eyes fixed on the Career camp. There was no source of water, as far as he could see, which meant they were surviving on the Cornucopia supplies for the moment. No matter how bold and brave the Careers were – or pretended to be – he was sure they didn't want to venture into such unfamiliar terrain unless they had to.

Which might've been good for the tributes who normally suffered from the Careers' killing sprees, but bad in terms of the Games and Gamemakers, since it wasn't conducive to lots of action and gore. "I think we should go back and talk with the others," he said. "Figure out where to go from here." He glanced over at Troy and was relieved to see him nod agreement. The last thing they needed was an argument right under – or over, as the case might be – the Career's noses.

He and Troy scooped up their unused weapons and slid back down the dune.

It wasn't until Hitch was walking away from the Cornucopia that he realized how tense he'd been. His legs trembled underneath him as he walked and it was all he could to do to calm down and keep from falling over. Troy didn't seem to be having any difficulties, but, then, danger didn't really seem to rattle him.

Internal issues, however, were an entirely different matter.

The thought crossed Hitch's mind that with their complimentary differences, they could've been good friends, instead of just a temporary – if excellent – team. But he brushed the idea aside. It was probably true, but thinking about it wasn't going to get him out of this arena faster.

Unless he went out dead, which was the farthest thing from his plans at the moment.

:::::

Tully was wide awake now, and had been for several minutes.

His respite in sleep had only been temporary, since pain and noise and memories had forced his eyes open once again, but on the whole, it wasn't too bad. Moffitt had him propped up against a smooth, large boulder, with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and a water canteen at his side. Tully hadn't touched the water since Moffitt had laid it next to him – since he was sure that anything that went into his stomach at the moment would come right back out – but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

"Feeling comfortable?" Moffitt said, pausing in his task of rearranging supplies.

Tully gave him a thread of a smile and nodded. If the ache in his stomach went away, he'd be even better, but since Moffitt obviously had nothing for it and speaking was painful, he didn't bother to mention it. Anyway, he wasn't going to win sponsors be appearing weak. A tribute could only do that by pressing through, despite the odds.

It made for a good show, and that's what everyone wanted, after all.

The night hung heavy over the oasis and Tully could only see clearly for a few feet around him. On his right, Moffitt had laid everything from his backpacks out on the sand and was going through them, writing things down in the sand with his finger, and then carefully placing each item back where it had come from. To his left, a little ways away, was the mutt carcass.

Tully's stomach churned just looking at it, so he didn't.

He couldn't afford to throw anything up anymore.

Moffitt jumped to his feet. "They're coming back," he said, squinting in the general direction of the Cornucopia. Tully turned to look, his arm protesting painfully every time he moved even the slightest bit. He ignored it. From what he figured, the pain in his arm would be a permanent part of the rest of his time in the arena. Might as well get used to it right away.

Moffitt loped out a few yards to meet them.

His words came back to Tully across the still desert air as the three drew nearer.

"Did you get into a fight?" Moffitt asked.

Tully saw Troy shake his head.

"No. There's too many of them. We're all going together, or we don't go at all. How's Tully?"

"Better, I think," Moffitt said. Tully knew that he was bursting to tell Troy and the others about the mutt attack and Dietrich from District 6 and all the details of how his doctoring had worked, but he'd let Troy speak first. Tully admired that. He could respect it.

"Come, Troy. I have something I want to show you," Moffitt finally said, and Tully could hear the barely repressed excitement in his voice. Troy must've heard it too, since he followed Moffitt right away, without any questions. He hardly glanced at Tully on his way over, but Tully didn't care. He'd probably only asked about him because he wanted to know if they could count on a fourth man to take on the Careers, but it didn't matter.

He wasn't sure he was going to stay with them anyway.

"A mutt?!"

"They came at us almost as soon as you and Hitch left," Moffitt said. "Tully woke up just in time to help me fight them off. I couldn't have done it without him. Or Dietrich."

"Dietrich?" Hitch said.

"The tribute from District 6. The one who attacked Tully."

"What was he doing here?" Troy asked, his voice hard.

Moffitt shook his head. "I don't know, Troy. He left almost as soon as he came, but he did give us the edge against those mutts. I don't think any of us would be able to figure him out, even if we had the chance." Moffitt shrugged and raised his eyebrows at Troy.

"Maybe he wants to join us," Tully said.

"Well, even if he does, it's not happening," Troy answered, shooting a glare at Hitch. Tully wondered what that was all about. Suddenly, he felt completely out of it. The three of them – Troy, Hitch, and Moffitt – had been working together long before he got there. They most likely all saw him as an unnecessary burden that had barged its way into their team, and wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible.

Maybe not Moffitt, but probably Troy. He had no idea about Hitch at the moment.

"So what's your plan for taking on the Careers?" Moffitt asked Troy. Tully sat up a little straighter, not giving any attention to the twinge in his shoulder, and took notice. If Troy included him in the plans, it would mean he was safe. For the time being. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to go or stay, but whatever Troy said next would decide the matter for him.

"There are four of them and four of us," Troy said.

Moffitt sent an inquiring glance his way. "Four?"

"There's another tribute, non-Career that's joined up with them. You'll probably know her name and district when you see her," Troy said, nodding at Moffitt. "We're pretty evenly matched, if Tully gets healed up in time. How long do you think it'll take?" he said, addressing Moffitt again.

Moffitt shrugged. "With medicine, a couple days. Without, I can't be sure."

Troy thought over this for a moment, and then nodded. "Fine. We'll all see what our sponsors can send once we've got the details over what exactly you need worked out. For now, let's just go with the assumption that it'll take us about four days to pull this off. We'll need a good strategic plan and a new location. This oasis is too near the Cornucopia, and I'm guessing they'll be coming out for water soon."

"Maybe they'll drink the water," Hitch said.

"Maybe." But Troy didn't look or sound too hopeful.

"Let's get moving," Troy said, picking up the weapons he dropped to the sand during the short strategy session. Moffitt helped Tully up, gave him a knife to carry, and then distributed the other weapons and newly packed backpacks among the other three.

Tully followed them as they forged a way back into the desert.

Everything would be so much simpler and easier if his stomach would stop lurching, but he kept the grimace off his face and walked on. Whining was pathetic and got you nothing. Whereas a show of grit and determination made the audience root for you. Maybe enough to send him some medicine.

Because no matter what Troy said about pooling their sponsors' resources, he wouldn't believe it till he saw it. Sponsors' gifts were a precious commodity in the Games, and he didn't think some Career tributes would spend theirs on a District 12 tribute they'd end up killing anyway. Unless Troy was really intent on using him as a means to an end – the other Careers' deaths.

He hated the way he second-guessed everyone's motives. Back at home, in District 12, things had been easier. Perhaps Ripper had shook her head over his willingness to trust and think the best of people, but it made everything more peaceful and usually people returned his trust with kindness of their own. Hs willingness to trust and help others had been his distinction, the thing that set him apart from his peers.

Now the Capitol had stripped even that away.

He shook his head slightly and continued on.

There was nothing he could do about it.


	15. Finding A Tribute

Dietrich had a problem.

He couldn't find any other tributes besides the Careers and 'the other ones' as he'd started calling them in his mind and neither of them would work with or for his plan. For any other tribute, not coming into any contact with other tributes wouldn't have been a problem – unless the Gamemakers sent mutts or something else to liven the Games up – but in order for his plan to work, Dietrich needed tributes to work with.

Plus, his supplies were running out.

He had reserved one backpack and its contents for his plan, and had been carefully rationing what remained of his dried food – since there were no animals in the arena that he could see besides the mutts – but it was getting low. Not dangerously so, but in a couple of days, the situation could go from serious to critical. He'd found a couple water holes and filled his large canteen. The smaller canteens that were already filled with water he left alone.

It was about midday in the arena, as far as he could tell, and the sun and air and sand were all nearly hot enough to burn a person. Dietrich figured that walking around aimlessly wasn't going to do him any good, especially since the area he was in was so level that any tribute could see him approaching from a distance, so he found a soft place in the sand and started digging.

If he couldn't find a tribute, he was going to wait till a tribute found him.

Since he was buried in the sand, without a tracker, the Gamemakers would have a difficult time spotting him. They knew his general area from the cameras, but now that he was no longer on the move, and buried in the sand, they might not know enough to keep the other tributes from him – if that's what they were doing. He was near a waterhole, too, so that could draw tributes to him.

And when they came...

He'd buried the backpacks a couple feet away from him, but the weapons were right at his side the whole time. At least the spears were. His small dagger, which had quickly become one of his most important items, since spears would be too unwieldy for cutting out the delicate trackers, hung off his belt. Secure, but easy to grab all the same.

Now that he was buried in the sand, there was nothing to do but wait.

A combination of the hot sun and the sand pressing around him at all sides had made Dietrich fall asleep, but only a few minutes after he did so, he jolted awake. He couldn't afford to sleep in the arena, at least not in broad daylight. He was only operating on a few hours of sleep as it was, and his eyelids were heavy. Still, this was no time to give into weakness.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of something.

Sunlight glinting off something metal.

Without bolting up from the sand or giving away his position in any way, he slowly turned his head, and saw a tribute – female – walking straight for the water hole that was a few yards away from him. She was young, probably only thirteen or fourteen, with short, blonde hair. Dietrich's heart sank a little. He hated the thought of knocking out someone like that, but it could possibly save her life.

That was the only thing that made him spring out of the sand, and hit her on the side of the head with his fist. She went down like he'd mortally wounded her, and he wasted no time. Pulling the knife off his belt, he took her arm and made a quick incision. It took him a moment to find the tracker, but he did, and threw it as far away as he could.

Then, he took one of the makeshift bandages out of his pants' pocket and bound up the wound. She wouldn't bleed to death. Even though the sand had mostly shifted back, he dug up the place he'd been waiting in, and put her inside, leaving only her head and shoulders uncovered. She would be hidden well enough until she woke up.

He dug up both backpacks and unzipped one, taking out a small canteen of water and a small package of beef and raisins he'd tied up in another cloth strip – his jacket had long been all torn up for bandages and wrappings – and placed it by her head, along with one of his spears. She had food, water, and a weapon. The short knife she'd been carrying, the one the sun had glinted off, didn't really count, but he put it by her anyway.

And now he was ready to go, to move onto the next waterhole and wait.

As he trudged away, slipping occasionally on the sand even if he had the wire overshoes, a sense of satisfaction filled him. He'd done it. He'd actually succeeded this time, since the girl had had no allies to help her. Unlike the District 12 tribute – who at least was free of his tracker – he'd pulled the mission off this time. It had all happened so fast that the Gamemakers were probably still trying to figure out exactly what had happened.

A small tingle of fear ran through him. The Gamemakers weren't stupid, and it wouldn't take them long to put two and two together. As long as he was running wild, he would continue to take down tributes and help them in whatever ways he could. And that could mess up the Games if he got enough momentum going. They'd kill him for sure.

But wasn't that what he'd always bargained on? He was sure that he wouldn't be doing all of this if he planned to win. No, he would continue to wreak havoc on the Capitol's carefully controlled Games until there wasn't breath in him. That would be enough. And maybe footage would leak out or he would accidentally come onto a camera before they could shut it off and then everyone would see what he was going.

Even if they didn't, it was enough to rattle the Gamemakers and President Snow.

He would survive long enough to unsettle them. That, he promised himself.


	16. Shifting Sand, Closer Team

Moffitt hadn't let them down.

When they got back to the waterhole he'd short-circuited, it was still full, clear, and fresh. Hitch was sure that the Gamemakers could've done whatever they wanted with the waterhole, but Moffitt's success was only half the point. They were probably impressed with his ingenuity, which is why they didn't blast the waterhole or fix it. Either way, they were all grateful for the guarantee – however temporary - of a fresh water supply.

The afternoon was deepening into evening and all Hitch wanted to do was have a good nap.

"We're too exposed here," Troy said.

Moffitt flopped down on the sand, followed by Hitch. Tully laid down a few yards away. He'd stumbled and nearly fallen several times on their way back to the waterhole, and now he was sleeping. Hitch didn't blame him. If he'd gone through what Tully had, he was sure he'd be the same way.

"Can't we just give it a rest for one night?" Hitch said, irritation creeping into his voice. Troy's caution was a good asset to have on the team, but he was almost too tired to worry about whether or not the Careers found them. From the expression on Moffitt's face, he felt the same way. And Tully was too exhausted to even weigh in the discussion...or argument, as it was quickly becoming.

"Excuse me for trying to keep us alive," Troy said, glowering at Hitch. "That's our goal isn't it? Stay alive long enough to start fighting each other." He shook his head. "Well, you can do what you want, but I say we move. Anyone could come along and pick us off."

"You mean you wouldn't put up a fight?" Moffitt said.

"Yeah, come on, Troy. We're Careers, after all. We could hold them off, easy."

Troy didn't answer. He turned his back and stalked off.

Hitch watched him go.

_He won't go far. We've got all the supplies._

In some ways, he understood Troy's concerns, but they weren't important enough, in his mind, to keep moving. They had a good supply of water, their supplies were holding up reasonably well even with a fourth to take care of, and, like he'd said, there were two Careers on the time. Just as skilled as the ones out for their blood. And Moffitt could handle himself alright in a battle. He'd held off the mutts, after all.

Troy's comment about their starting to fight one another rankled in Hitch's mind. It was inevitable, of course, but he hadn't really thought ahead that much. He'd tried not to get too involved with the other three, but he figured that now, instead of killing them before they killed him, he'd slip off one morning. That way, he wouldn't have to be the first to lift a weapon. After he left, they could fight it out among themselves or peacefully dissolve the truce.

He didn't care. He just didn't want to kill any of them.

A strangled cry broke into his thoughts, and his head whipped around to see Troy, several metres away, floundering, sinking into what looked like...ordinary sand. Moffitt was already on his feet, running across the sand toward Troy. Hitch was up an instant later, his feet pounding and slipping in the sand. His heartbeat matched his stride.

Troy was disappearing right before their eyes.

"Stop! No! Don't come any closer!" Troy shouted when Moffitt was only a few feet away.

Both he and Hitch skidded to an uneasy halt. Hitch's thoughts raced frantically. Troy was there, in the sand, which must have been another of the Gamemakers traps, sinking away. Although not as fast as when they'd first seen him, every minute he dropped a couple inches. "It's quicksand," Moffitt said quietly. Then, louder so Troy could hear him, he said, "Don't move. Stay still as you can."

Troy nodded.

Moffitt was already running back. He grabbed two backpacks and threw the third to Hitch. "Take everything out of it," he commanded. "Just throw it down, we don't have a moment to waste." Hitch's heart thudded in his chest as he unzipped the backpack and tossed everything out. He handed it to Moffitt, who'd already gotten his two empty.

Moffitt lay down on his stomach. "Hold my legs."

Hitch saw what Moffitt was trying to do, flattened out, and held onto Moffitt's legs. Then, Moffitt stretched as far as he could, probably over the tricky sand, and passed all the packs to Troy. With Hitch holding on, he wouldn't fall in, but it was risky all the same. Hitch held on tight as he could and as soon as Troy had the packs, he pulled Moffitt back with all his strength.

He didn't want anyone else going in, no matter what.

The sand was now up to Troy's chest. His arms were still uncovered, and as soon as Moffitt had held out the packs, he'd taken them – being slow and careful all the while – and put them under his arms. He probably hadn't read as much as Moffitt, but the whole plan was pretty obvious. The backpacks didn't exactly stop him from sinking, but they slowed the process down enough to give them a little time.

"Give me your jacket," Moffitt said, already peeling his off.

Hitch did so. Underneath the jacket, was a little, khaki shirt. For a moment, Hitch felt cool and light without the jacket, but the shirt would be little protection against the sun's intense heat and burning power. He felt vulnerable and exposed without it, but he shrugged away the feeling. This was no time to be thinking about personal fashion preferences.

"Get Tully's." Moffitt tied one of his jacket sleeves to Hitch's as Hitch ran over to Tully and worked his jacket off as quickly as possible. Every second counted for something. They needed to do this as quickly as possible. Tully stirred in his sleep, but Hitch didn't wait around to see if he'd wake up and help. No delays.

"Here it is," he said breathlessly, tossing it to Moffitt. He caught it mid-air, and the next moment, it was tied with the others. Troy was watching the proceedings with a sort of calm desperation on his face. _He's _got_ to be scared,_ Hitch thought. _Terrified, even._ _He doesn't want anyone to see it, though._ If it was him in that sand, he hoped he'd be the same way. Scared, certainly, but not showing it.

He and Moffitt repeated the procedure they'd worked out when they'd given the backpacks to Troy, and Moffitt flung the shirt-rope out to Troy. The backpacks had kept his arms above-sand long enough for him to be able to grab the rope, and he did, holding onto it so tightly that Hitch saw his hands trembling. Or maybe they'd done that the whole time.

"Come up beside him," Moffitt said. "Carefully."

Hitch didn't want to let go, but after a second's hesitation, he did. When he got up beside Moffitt, the end of the shirt-rope was passed to him, and Moffitt took up the middle.

This was the difficult part.

Getting traction in the sand was next to impossible, and if they weren't careful, they'd both go sliding into the deadly sand as well. Hitch bit down on his lip so hard he tasted blood, but he ignored it. All his concentration had to be focused on getting Troy out. If he let his focus slip for one moment, everything would be over.

The next second, he nearly lost his grip on the rope when he felt someone pulling on the bit at the end. He whirled around, and there was Tully, his face pale, but his hands strong. Capable. "Keep pulling," Moffitt said, his voice pushed out over his exertion. Hitch nodded and moved a little closer to Moffitt so that Tully would have more to pull on.

He wasn't sure how much effort Tully would be able to give, but at least he was a weight at the end of the rope. That would help. With a bit of the worry of slipping gone, Hitch redoubled his efforts and gradually, very gradually, he felt the weight on the end shift, change, and finally become lighter.

He couldn't see anything, since Moffitt's back was directly in his line of sight, but he knew that the sand was giving up its grip on Troy. Because of that, he risked a glance back at Tully. His eyes were blazing with a determination he'd only seen once before – that time he'd asked Tully to join his alliance and Tully had refused – and his grip and pull on the rope was still strong.

At the moment, Hitch looked back, Moffitt shouted. "He's out!" and they all released the rope and ran over to Troy. He was lying on his back on the sand, his clothes and face and hair covered with the stuff, and a look of terror and exhaustion and gratefulness all mixed together on his face.

Hitch ran and got him some water from the hole.

Troy drank it all down, and Hitch got some more and splashed it all over his face.

Once he seemed recovered enough, Moffitt started asking Troy questions about what the experience had been like, had he noticed anything strange that could help them figure out where other sand traps were, and if he felt like he needed anything. Hitch was sure his questions partly came from a real wish to know the answers, but partly to conceal his fright.

Because Hitch felt fear too.

How were any of them safe with traps like that? They'd never know what had happened.

Plus, all three backpacks were now long gone which mean that they had nothing except the jackets to help them next time. But Moffitt was a strategist, and Hitch felt sure that once he'd recovered, they'd all come up with some plan to help them combat the newest twist. They'd always managed before.

Troy was on the sand, still gasping like a dying fish.

Tully was sitting a little ways away, watching everything.

Moffitt had gotten one of the blankets and put it under Troy's head, along with some more water.

Hitch was thinking about what he could possibly ask his sponsors for to help with the situation.

More backpacks, he supposed, but that could wait.

"Still think we should move out?" Moffitt asked, a little grin on his face. He wasn't trying to rub Troy the wrong way or bring up the argument again, just lighten up the situation. Neither Troy nor Tully were in any condition to move at the moment. The exertion seemed to have done Tully in for the moment, and Hitch was sure that once Troy was okay for the moment, Moffitt would move on to the next patient.

Troy shook his head. "Bury yourself in the sand for tonight. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

Moffitt nodded.

"Oh, and guys?"

"Yes?" Moffitt said.

"Thanks."

Hitch grinned. "Nothing to it."

"Right," Troy said, shaking his head.

As Moffitt walked over to Tully, Hitch started gathering together all the supplies they'd tossed out. He felt good, despite their most recent experience in the arena. Their team was becoming more like a team, even joking with each other, and it felt good. If he wasn't planning on killing any of them, just walking out one night, he didn't feel as guilty about sharing these moments. The Gamemakers couldn't determine who killed who, after all.

Happiness might be out of place in the arena, but at the moment, he was happy.


	17. Sandstorm

All of them, including Tully, sat in a semi-circle on the sand, watching Troy.

He was making a sketch in the sand, using his finger, of the Cornucopia, surrounding dunes, and where he'd need everybody if they were going to make a successful attack on the Careers. Tully was only half following it. He was still tired from helping pull Troy out of the sand trap even though it had been over an hour ago, and his weariness was making everything seem unreal and fuzzy.

Really, he had no concrete idea how he'd gotten to this point, and he hadn't bothered asking. They'd picked him up somewhere along the line and now, apparently, he was a valued member of the team. Because Troy had just pointed out his position. It wasn't a very important one – more of a look-out than anything, but at least he was included, and the part he would play was necessary in some ways.

On the outer edge of the semi-circle, Moffitt was watching Troy's finger and the sand intently. Tully sat beside him, on the inside. Hitch was beside him, with Troy making up the other end of the half circle. Even though he hadn't wanted to team up with anyone – much less some rogue Careers – they'd been pretty good to him. And he'd helped them with Troy and the sand.

Maybe they were a team, but he'd still keep his senses alert.

As alert as he could, anyway.

Moffitt seemed the most safe, although Hitch was surprisingly non-threatening for a Career. Troy didn't look to be particularly close or trusting of any of them, but Tully remembered the incident in the training room with Brutus, and he didn't think Troy would stab any of them in the back. Unless he was hiding his true colours.

At the moment, he was pretty sure that teaming up against the Careers was the glue that would keep them together. After they were gone...who could say? There were other tributes they could go up against, of course, but the Careers posed the biggest threat and Tully was sure that Hitch and Troy could take out the other tributes on their own. Which meant that he and Moffitt were expendable, in the long run.

He'd stick with them for a while, at least until he healed up. Perhaps the whole alliance could end peacefully, although knowing Careers, he doubted it. He'd try to keep the peace, try to keep things quiet and end everything peacefully, but if that didn't work, he'd run. Not fight. No matter what happened, he didn't want to kill these tributes.

He didn't want to kill anybody.

:::::

"Then, once we're close enough, we'll go around that way and outflank them," Troy said, making sweeping gestures with his hand to show exactly what he meant. Moffitt nodded. It was a relatively simple maneuver that drew from previous Games along with practical know-how in order to make it work. He could see a couple flaws in Troy's plan, but those could be worked out later. They wouldn't be attacking for two or three days, at any rate.

Instead, he glanced over at Tully, who looked tired, but a little better than when they'd first arrived at the waterhole. He attributed that to the bits of food and sips of water they'd been able to give him, as well as his own limited medicinal skills. Not that he would brag about something like that – there wasn't really anything to brag about – but it was just one of his theories.

Now that he thought about Tully, he remembered Hitch's sponsors.

He waited for Troy to finish talking and then said, "Hitch, do you think you could request a few supplies from your sponsors? We could use a backpack or two, but I think we should get some medicine for Tully first." He saw Tully open his mouth, but close it again. Probably had been going to protest, but even if he had, Moffitt wouldn't have taken no for an answer. He wasn't about to have him die or get worse.

"Oh, right," Hitch said. "Forgot about that."

He smiled a little and stood up again.

Of course, there was a chance that the sponsors wouldn't – or couldn't – send anything, because if they hadn't gotten the message by now, Moffitt doubted that Hitch's asking politely would do anything. But it had worked the first time, and maybe the sponsors liked the feeling of being addressed directly by Hitch. Inwardly, Moffitt rolled his eyes. The Careers always got what they wanted.

"Hey, we could use some medicine down here," Hitch said. He looked over at Moffitt and whispered, "What kind?"

Moffitt thought it over for a moment. A painkiller would be a waste of a good sponsor gift, since Tully didn't seem to be in too much pain. He could ask for something for the fever or a balm to heal up his wounds. Finally, he said to Hitch, "Something to heal his arm and shoulder." Tully's fever wasn't too bad, they could use water to bring it down, and if his body didn't have to fight against his wounds, it could spend more energy on the fever.

Hitch relayed the request.

Only seconds later, a small plastic container attached to a silver parachute fluttered down to them. Moffitt pulled it down from the sky, and unscrewed the top. Inside was a tiny bottle. He pulled the stopper off the top and sniffed the insides. The cream inside had a pleasant herb scent, lavender from what he could tell, and there were probably others he couldn't identify.

"Hold still," he ordered Tully. "This will only take a moment."

He dipped two fingers into the cream, and Tully rolled up his shirt sleeve and let Moffitt work the medicine into his arm. A contented expression passed over his face as soon as it touched his skin, and for once in his life, Moffitt was grateful to the Capitol. They knew how to make good medicine, no doubt about it.

"I'll need to do your shoulder, as well."

Carefully, so as not to rub away any of the cream on arm, Tully pulled the shoulder of his shirt down and let Moffitt rub more of the stuff into his shoulder. It would've been nearly healed, if it wasn't for all the running and pulling and fighting Tully had had to do lately.

Once the job was done, Moffitt sat back in satisfaction, putting the bottle into his pants' pocket. Now he could rest easier, knowing that his patient was on the road to recovery and they could fully concentrate on the task of wiping out the Careers. He wasn't sure he wanted the Careers dead, mainly because once they were dead, the whole alliance would break up, but it was their best shot at survival.

"He should be better in two days or less if we keep things quiet."

"This is the Hunger Games, Moffitt," Troy said. "Nothing's ever quiet."

A gust of wind blew across the sand, erasing Troy's markings and sketches.

Moffitt's arms prickled with a sense of danger, the same thing they had when the mutts had approached. Were they coming back? He thought about it for a moment, and then shook his head. It was the wind. Gusting in with chilling intensity, icy cold, and the sand picking up and swirling around in an unnatural way.

An engineered way.

A Gamemakers' way.

"It's a sandstorm," he said, and then the wind slammed into him with such force he could hardly breath. He fell to the ground, hitting the sand hard. His head rang from the sudden drop, but he scrambled to his feet as quickly as possible, struggling against the wind that roared in his ears.

_The supplies._

Earlier, he'd arranged them in a neat pile, but when he turned to the place where the pile had been, there was nothing. Just sand. He let out a cry of anger. All their supplies gone in seconds, just because someone in a quiet, safe room decided things were too boring. Or maybe he or she had a grudge against them. They did seem to be constantly on the run from different things...

He fell down again.

Through the whirling sand, he could make out the other three. They were on the ground, too.

He tried to yell out to them, to tell them to stay put so nobody got lost, but when he opened his mouth, hot, gritty sand filled it and nearly choked him. He lowered his head and spat out as much as he could. Hopefully, the others would have enough sense to stay put. He couldn't do anything to help them.

:::::

Dietrich was sleeping when the sandstorm hit.

He'd decided to bury down in the sand and rest for a while before continuing. Sleeping was better than using up his precious supplies to no end, and he was tired. He was sure that some sixth sense would awaken him if another tribute came near, just as it had done before, so he'd found a good spot, burrowed in, and fallen asleep almost immediately.

He woke up to a changed world.

Sand was everywhere. Getting in his eyes, his nose, his mouth. All of the sand on top of him had been blown away. He was exposed, vulnerable, with the wind and grit hitting his body and speeds he couldn't even begin to imagine. If he got up and tried to struggle through it, he was sure he'd die.

So, he didn't.

As best he could, he dug into the sand again and buried himself in it. The Gamemakers had evidently unleashed this storm – it certainly wasn't a natural occurrence – probably because they couldn't pinpoint his location exactly enough to send a fireball or mutt directly on him. So they did the next best thing, even if it was a bit messier.

He wondered if the sandstorm covered the whole arena, or just his bit of it.

Either way, he wasn't moving. The wind could howl and rage and storm. It could blow all the sand off him, he wouldn't care. He'd just keep digging. And if the storm lasted indefinitely, well, he'd taken out three trackers, including his own, showed up the Gamemakers' plans more than once, and at least given them something to think about.

If he died here, he was ready to accept that.


	18. After The Storm

A fuzzy white noise intruded in on Tully's sleep.

It roared in his ears and filled every one of his senses. He couldn't shake it off, but it did wake him up. Only when he was awake did he realize that the white, harsh sound was the absence of sound. Sometime, maybe recently, maybe several hours ago, the sandstorm had ended, leaving the arena nearly untouched. At least he couldn't see any differences.

Where were the others?

Was he alone now? Alone and lost?

Tully sat up. Worry and something close to dread pooled up inside him, but he forced himself to remain calm. He'd just woken up, he didn't know anything for sure, and there was no use hyperventilating about anything. Sure, if he were alone, running around in circles and freaking out would give the Capitol audience a good show, but that was the last thing he was going to do.

He'd been by himself before, in much worse situations. He'd pull through this just as-

The sand near his feet shifted, slid away, and finally broke off as Moffitt pushed his way up out of several inches, sputtering and blinking. Tully moved forward a little bit and helped pull him out, using his good arm. Even though the sponsor's gift had gone a long way toward healing his arm up, it was still sore. Moffitt gripped the offered arm and stumbled to his feet.

Once he was up, he wiped the sand out of his eyes.

"Got buried pretty deep?" Tully said.

Moffitt nodded, still rubbing his eyes. Sand covered his face, sticking to it here and there, although most had already fallen off. He looked a bit like how Troy had when he'd fallen into the sand trap, although much calmer. Tully sat back down and waited for Moffitt to get the last bits of grit from his eye. Then, they'd decide what to do next.

Whether they wanted to break up the alliance, or continue on without the others.

Tully stopped himself. It was stupid to write off Hitch and Troy when he hadn't even searched for them yet. Awkwardly, he stood up and began walking in ever widening circles, keeping an out for a face, a hand, a foot, a bit of cloth...anything that could give a clue as to Troy or Hitch's whereabouts. Nothing looked promising, but he'd never be able to forgive himself if he didn't make a thorough search.

Several yards away from where he'd first woken up, he found Hitch.

"He's here," he said as Moffitt came up behind him, finally calmer and sand-free.

Only the tips of his feet and his blonde hair were visible – the rest of him was covered in what looked to be a thick layer of sand. Both he and Moffitt bent down, brushed some of the sand away from Hitch's feet, and pulled him out in one smooth jerk. He didn't wake up, though, until Moffitt slapped him on the face a couple of times. Not hard, just a wake-up call.

Then, he blinked a couple of times and looked around blearily.

"What-?"

"Pretty big sandstorm," Tully answered. Hitch might not have even known what hit him.

Moffitt nodded. "Gamemaker-made, in my opinion." He squinted up at the sun. "If they're playing the days and nights just as they are on the outside, I'd say we were out of it for at least three hours. Maybe a bit more. Of course, if they're manipulating the time too, we could have been asleep for any amount of time." He didn't look happy with the thought.

"Where's Troy?" Hitch said, now standing up.

Tully held up a hand. "Haven't searched everywhere yet."

"Let's give it a shot, then," Moffitt said.

Hitch was still looking around him, obviously searching for something that wasn't there. The supplies. "Where'd you put the supplies?" he finally said, turning to Moffitt. His expression showed that he knew what had happened to them, he just didn't want to think about it. He was grasping for assurance, but neither Tully nor Moffitt could give him any. Tully was sure they'd blown away during the storm.

"We've lost them," Moffitt finally said, his voice as close to bitterness as Tully had ever heard it.

Hitch stared at him, then the sand, and then in the direction of the Cornucopia.

He cleared his throat. "We-I-I have sponsors." But his eyes showed uncertainty.

Tully felt his own heart sink a little. Yes, Hitch had sponsors, but each sponsor gift was exorbitantly priced – a price that only went up as the Games lengthened – and they needed so much. This was the part where they'd either kick him out or kill him – or Hitch would take out both him and Moffitt – they weren't even looking at him.

"Do we even have a chance anymore against the Careers?" Hitch said.

_Yes_, Tully thought.

He still had his slingshot and knife.

Hitch had his axes on his belt as usual.

And Moffitt's bow and quiver were still there, yards away from them in the sand, by some strange twist. The Gamemakers probably didn't want all the weapons to go, because hand-to-hand combat wasn't nearly as violent and gory as what knives and axes and arrows could do. _All they want is a good show. They'll make sure you stay alive long enough for that._

He'd survived a little while without any food or water – and they still had the waterhole.

They could still work with what they had, along with any help Hitch could scrounge out of his sponsors, as long as they found Troy. Even if Tully wasn't exactly friends with the guy, they couldn't very well attack the Careers without him. Not only because they needed the manpower, but because he was a leader. They needed a leader, someone to unify them, if only for a moment.

Hitch might have started out in charge of things, with building the alliance he wanted, but Troy had become the alliance's leader. Tully didn't know what Hitch thought of that, or even if he'd realized the fact just yet. But as a mostly impartial observer, it was easy to see. They couldn't do much without Troy, and he was willing to admit it.

"I found Troy," Moffitt shouted, even further away from where they'd found Hitch.

Tully, Moffitt, and Hitch all worked on digging him out – it took only seconds with all three of them together – and as soon as the sand's grip had eased, Troy's eyes fluttered open. They might not have all breathed a sigh of relief, but Tully, at least, was relieved. And neither of the others looked too unhappy with how things were working out.

Troy drew in a breath and coughed. And then coughed some more.

The three of them sat back to give him some air, but every breath he took seemed to trigger a new coughing attack. Troy knelt in the sand, doubled over, unable to stop coughing. Moffitt watched for a moment, but then pulled him up and they helped him over to the waterhole. A thin layer of sand covered the top, but Tully pushed that away long enough for Troy to get a good long drink inside of him.

The water cleared his throat, apparently, since he was able to talk.

"Did the supplies get blown away?" he said, voice raspy.

Moffitt nodded and got him to take another drink.

"All except our weapons. Do you know if any of yours survived?" Moffitt bent down after asking the question and took a drink himself. Then Hitch, and, finally, Tully.

Troy shook his head. "I don't think so. I'll have to borrow one of yours."

"We'll work out the details later," Moffitt said. "We should all rest a little now. Recover from this."

No-one had any objections.

:::::

In Dietrich's opinion, things were going well.

He'd had the foresight to bury all his supplies with him, and now they were all there, still available, ready and waiting, for him to use. The Gamemakers hadn't conquered him through the sandstorm – if that had been their intention – they hadn't even unearthed him from his buried position. Sand had packed down on him over the hours that the storm had raged on, but it only took a moment to be released from its weight.

Strange, how such tiny bits of stone could be so heavy.

He stood up, stretching his arms and legs, working all the stiffness out of his muscles. He had to be limber and ready for whatever came next. After a few minutes of stretching, he pulled out his backpacks again, reorganized the contents – he had enough supplies at the moment to un-tracker one other tribute – and brushed the rest of the sand from his clothes and hair.

Now he was ready.

Which was a good thing since his first step landed on someone's hand.

_A sandstorm victim,_ he thought as he unburied the tribute. The tribute was maybe sixteen or seventeen, male, and Dietrich was almost positive he was from District 11. It didn't really matter what district the tribute was from, it was just a fact that registered in his mind. He was relieved that the tribute was already unconscious – he would've knocked him out, but it was easier not to have to.

Still, he kept his spear ready in case the procedure woke him up.

It didn't.

He was able to remove the tracker, bandage the cut, and leave the water and food in less than five minutes. Then, he set off once again, moving away from the tribute he'd just helped as was his habit. The Gamemakers hadn't crushed him with their bullying show. He emerged from it the victor, even if he didn't actually win the Games. Which he wouldn't, of course. He never expected that.

Yes, things were going well.


	19. Missing Trackers And Lightning

Night had well and truly fallen by the time they all emerged from a restless nap. None of them were much rested, and Moffitt, who had taken guard duty for most of the rest period – since both Troy and Tully were recovering and Hitch was much younger – was feeling the brunt of exhaustion.

The plummeting temperatures had made it difficult for anyone to get a decent rest, though, and they all woke up as tired and worn-out as when they'd woken up. Tully looked the most alert of all of them. His arms were folded in front of and around him, like the rest of them, to ward off the cold. They all huddled in a tight circle. It didn't really warm anyone up, but it was the idea of the thing.

Moffitt unfolded his arms and put his hands in his pants' pockets in an attempt to warm them up.

His hand banged against...what?

Then he remembered. The medicine for Tully's arm. Apparently the only bit of the supplies that had been blown away. He pulled it out, and even though he could hardly see anything – the half moon hovering above them gave off only a faint glow – he took out the stopper and scooted over to Tully. Might as well apply a fresh coat while he could. The sooner he got Tully fixed up, the better.

The boy from District 8 and both tributes from 10 had died sometime in the last day. At some point in their rest, the anthem had jolted them all awake, but Moffitt wondered if any of the others really remembered seeing anything. No matter, although it was a sign that the Careers were either on the prowl, or other tributes hadn't been so lucky in dealing the more natural disasters, traps, and mutts. Probably a mix of both.

"Let me fix up your arm, Tully," he said.

Tully held out his arm without a word. He stared off into the distance, obviously lost in thought, and Moffitt didn't try to break into that with attempts at conversation. They all had different ways of coping with the reality of the arena and, like him, Tully seemed to be one of the thoughtful ones. Troy barged into things, and Hitch seemed to be adjusting pretty well, considering everything.

It was the ones who weren't Careers, the ones who had to work harder for survival, that weighed the cost of every move, who analyzed even the simplest thing. The arena was a deadly place unless you had your wits about you. It was a deadly place either way, actually. Moffitt shook away the thoughts, letting them settle in the back of his mind. If he wasn't careful, he'd start to get morbid and depressed, and the tributes whose morale failed them were always the ones who went quickly.

Instead, he focused on the immediate task at hand.

_What kind of person would give another tribute this kind of wound?_

Tully would almost certainly have bled to death if they hadn't happened upon him. Perhaps Dietrich wanted to kill him – no, there was no 'perhaps' about it; he had wanted to kill Tully – but why not a quick slash or stab to the throat. Was the boy some kind of sadist? Moffitt shook his head, and finished up his task, then slipped the bandage back on.

He'd come to help them with the mutts, hadn't asked for anything in return, and hadn't tried to kill either of them. None of it added up. Nothing made sense. He thought back long and hard to first when they'd come across Tully and then to the mutt attack and how Dietrich had acted afterwards. From what he could remember, he'd had a bandage on the same arm, same place Tully's was now. Had Tully wounded him earlier and that had been Dietrich's revenge?

Then why the help with the mutts?

He sat back down in his usual place, blocking out a quiet conversation between Hitch and Troy so that he could think more clearly. Dietrich had given Tully a life-draining wound and run off. Then, he'd helped him and Tully fight against the mutts. And then he'd slipped off again, without saying anything to either defend himself or threaten. And he had a wound in the exact same place that Tully did. Half-way up his right arm.

Half-way...

Moffitt stared at his own arm for a moment. In the darkness that cloaked them all, he could still make out the faint, very faint green glow of his tracker. A smiling woman had injected it into his arm with a wicked-looking needle right before he'd entered the holding room. All the tributes had them. All the tributes except-

He went back over to Tully, who was hunched over, as small as he could to conserve body heat.

"I need to check your bandage," Moffitt said. He hastily unwrapped it, his eyes going straight to where he knew Tully's tracker would be. Only it wasn't there, as far as he could tell. No green glow, no slightly raised bump. Nothing. And the knife wound was slashed right on top of where would've been.

"Troy," Moffitt called out, his voice rising in a mixture of excitement at having finally figured things out, worry at what it could mean for them, and fear at what the whole thing had already brought down on them. If his theory was correct, that is.

"Do I really need to come over there, Moffitt?"

"Yes, I think there's something you should see. Hitch, as well."

With an exasperated sigh which carried clear over to Moffitt, Troy unfolded himself from his scrunched-up position and stomped over. Hitch followed him, less irritated, but still cold. They were all cold. Moffitt shivered himself, but ignored the weather for a moment. This was much more important. Tully had sensed it too, sensed that whatever Moffitt wanted Troy and Hitch to see had to do with him.

"What's the matter?" he asked Moffitt.

"I don't know just yet. Maybe nothing."

Troy and Hitch arrived by Moffitt and Tully. "So?" Troy asked.

"When you were on the hovercraft, you were given trackers, weren't you?" Moffitt asked. He flipped his arm over and pointed out the glow and the bump. It made him feel a little sick inside to think that an electronic device – which his district had invented – was inside his body, sending the Gamemakers constant, precise information about him.

Troy and Hitch had trackers too.

"What's the problem, then?" Hitch asked. "We all have them."

"Not Tully."

Tully stared at Moffitt and the others for a minute. "When I was in the hovercraft, they gave me a needle. Said it had a tracker in it," he said. His voice was quiet, but confused. Moffitt smiled a little, hoping to ease his concerns, even if none of them knew exactly what those concerns should be. Nothing that happened in the arena – planned or by accident – was good. Period.

"I'm sure they did," Moffitt said. "They don't slip up like that. I believe that Dietrich cut his tracker out, probably as soon as he could, and then he did the same with you. For whatever reason. You don't have a tracker anymore, and I'm positive that's how it happened. I don't know why he did it, but he did." He took a deep breath and waited to hear what Troy, Hitch, and Tully had to say.

For the most part, none of them seemed all that worried.

"It's no big deal, right?" Hitch said.

"Doesn't seem too important," Tully said, sending a quick nod to Hitch in agreement.

"They won't be able to target him as easily, or know exactly when to send in the hovercraft when he dies, but I don't really see why you had to get us over here," Troy groused. "Who cares whether or not the Gamemakers have every tribute tagged? They'll still do whatever they want." He'd spoken in the low tone that all of them seemed to use now, but Moffitt wished he hadn't said anything. The Gamemakers didn't like being taunted.

Which was exactly what Dietrich and, to some extent, Tully were doing.

"That's exactly the point," Moffitt said. "He's a wild card. They've been dealt a bad hand by Dietrich and they're going to do whatever they can to fix it." Whatever they can. Which, in Gamemaker terms usually meant eliminating the tribute permanently. Tully wasn't a threat to them – not like Dietrich, if half of his theory about what he was doing were true – but they wanted to be in control every step of the way. And with Tully loose in the arena, that wasn't happening.

Moffitt looked down at the sand for a moment, and then back to Tully.

"I think we're being attacked because you're with us."

Tully stared back at him for a moment, and then his gaze fell to his hands.

Moffitt bit his lip.

"You want me to leave," Tully said. It wasn't a question.

"No," Moffitt said. "I don't want you to leave." He shot a glance at Troy and Hitch. "If you want," he said, addressing Troy, "we can break up peacefully. Me and Tully, you and Hitch. Or you and Hitch can go your separate ways from each other. We don't need to make this any worse than it already is." All he wanted out of this was a bloodless split. They didn't need to make things worse than they already were.

Troy was silent for several minutes.

Moffitt was content to let him think. The last thing he wanted was to irritate Troy with questions, because at the moment, he could feel that the balance was so fine, one thing or another could tip it either way. He glanced over at Tully. He was watching all three of them intently, his face paler, but calm. Moffitt was content with his offer. He and Tully would do quite well together.

Troy finally spoke. "We're not splitting up," he said. "At least I'm not. We've been able to work through everything the Gamemakers have thrown at us." There was a glint in his eye, something rebellious, something of a challenge. But not to Moffitt. To the Gamemakers. Something to the effect of _'do your worst, see what I care'._ "And we still have to take care of the Careers. What kind of alliance would we be if we split up over something like this?"

A rush of relief filled Moffitt. He looked at Hitch, who seemed just as relieved as he was.

Good. For the time, nothing had changed. He wanted it to stay that way for as long as possible.

:::::

The sky above Dietrich was dark-red and cloudy.

It looked evil.

A Gamemakers' invention?

Of course. Because he could see where the clouds ended, and where they started up again. The area where he walked was covered in the clouds, so he stopped walking. They would continue to move with him, and he didn't want that. At the moment he was certain that no tribute was near him. But if he kept moving, someone could get caught up in whatever was coming next, and that was one of the last things he wanted to happen.

He'd come into this arena with plans to save as many tributes as he could.

He wasn't about to endanger their lives now.

Especially since this particular danger was generated specifically for him. He knew it; just as well as he knew the end of his time in the arena was close. Very, very close. The cloud cover was large to kill him with whatever they chose to send out of it. Acid rain, fireballs, bird mutts. Whatever it was, he was ready. He'd saved three tributes, at least for a little time, he'd defied the Gamemakers more than once, and he wasn't about to ruin his message now.

They'd have to show his death, or else that audiences would be livid over missing a tribute death.

He would be quiet and courageous and strong. Not flinching and cowering and screaming.

About a mile away, lightning crackled out of the clouds. The strong electrical current emitting from it caused the hairs on the back of his neck to tingle. The air was charged, and it would only get worse. He closed his eyes for only a moment, allowing the bits of fear inside him to escape in one blink and one little sigh. Then he drew in a deep breath and watched the lightning.

It came faster now, and was slowly moving his way.

There was a strange beauty about the flashes. Delicate pieces of shattered light hanging in the air for one instant and then disappearing like a mist. Only those delicate lights were deadly. Still, Dietrich allowed himself a chance to think about their beauty, since it was probably the last thing he'd ever be able to enjoy.

They were close now. So close he could _smell_ the electricity in the air.

A tangy, indefinable scent.

He glared straight forward, letting all his hatred of the Games and the Gamemakers and the Capitol and President Snow out in his gaze. He hated them all, he hated what they'd done to him and the other tributes in the arena, and he wanted their last memory of him to be seared into their minds forever. Particularly the president. He wanted to make them think, truly think about what they were doing.

The next lightning bolt was only a few inches from him.

He fought the urge to flinch, to run away, to drop to his knees.

Seconds later, the next and last bolt slammed its way into the ground.

Red clouds drifted softly away.

And the cannon boomed.

There was nothing left of the tribute from District 6.

The Gamemakers had specifically engineered the lightning bolts to make sure there was nothing for the hovercraft to retrieve. The last thing they wanted was the tribute being sent home, possibly becoming a martyr for his cause, and fueling any dusty seeds of revolution that might have been planted. They didn't even bother sending in a hovercraft team.

A waste of fuel and effort, for a tribute they never wanted to think of again.


	20. Flight, Fight

Tully took first watch.

From all appearances, the others still trusted him as much as they would, nothing had changed, but he was still uneasy. Uncomfortable. His insides were tight with worry, fear, and an inkling of distrust towards them. Was Troy lulling him into a false sense of security so he could do away with him later? Moffitt seemed sincere, but the Careers were so different.

Tully wanted to trust them, but he didn't know if he could afford to.

It was quite late when everyone settled down enough to turn in for the night – actually, there were only a few hours till dawn – and Tully had volunteered for first watch. Moffitt was exhausted from his own vigil and Troy usually left guard duty to the other three. He'd wanted time to think, so Hitch agreed to take the second watch.

Now, he settled himself in the sand a few feet from the camp, watching in the direction of the Cornucopia. The three Careers and Livia were the real threat, not the other, lesser tributes scattered through the arena. He thought for a moment, trying to remember who and how many were left. It was difficult to remember all the deaths and who had died from what district, but in the end he calculated that the girls from 5, 6, 7, and 8 were still alive along with the boy from 11, their team, and the other Careers.

Thirteen left to play the Games.

Four of five days had passed since the beginning of the Games, and the Capitol audience was probably getting restless. Betting had certainly slowed, sponsor gifts were becoming more rare, tensions were high among the Gamemakers, and all over the arena, alliances would start crumbling as the Games turned into a free-for-all. And Tully wanted no part of it.

Sand shifted gently around in front of him, the result of a gentle breeze, not a coming sandstorm.

The sky was black and starless, with only a sliver of a moon.

Perfect for a get-away.

Tully wrapped his arms around his knees and hunched down as small as he could. Nights in the arena were freezing, but he'd started to become used to it. If you couldn't move around to keep warm, it was best to pull in as tight as possible to conserve body heat. The action reminded him once again of the fact that they had no supplies.

It hadn't been his plan to stick around just to have supplies, but he realized that now that they were all gone, there was nothing left for him to stick around for. Nothing waiting for him except a knife in his back. Maybe not that night, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. He was sure of it. After all, what did he bring to the team? Even if his arm was getting better, he was still wounded. He was good with the slingshot, but there were no rocks. And using a knife wasn't really his forte.

But he could bring everyone trouble if he stuck around.

He sighed and rested his head on his knees. The thought was frightening. The Gamemakers wanted him dead as soon as possible just because some tribute had taken his tracker out for no apparent reason. He didn't know whether to hate Dietrich or feel grateful to him. On the one hand, it was hard for the Gamemakers to kill him because they couldn't pin-point him. But on the other, they wouldn't be trying so hard to kill him if he still had the tracker.

So, he would leave.

It would be best for all involved, including himself. Troy and Hitch and Moffitt wouldn't be threatened by his presence and the Gamemakers' fury anymore – at least for a time – he would be safer without them, and nobody would have to throw the first knife.

Then, he remembered.

The Careers. Probably the only reason Troy was letting him live.

Now he was caught in a dilemma. If he left, the odds would be uneven. And as much as he didn't trust Troy – and, to a slightly lesser degree, the others – he didn't want to just leave them like that. The thing was, he could see him and them being friends if they'd all been from the same district. If none of them had been thrown into this thing. It didn't feel right to just abandon them.

At the very least, he needed to even the score a bit.

Moving softly, quietly, he crawled over to Moffitt's quiver of arrows. They lay right beside the sleeping tribute, so he was extra careful as he took out two arrows out of the eight or so that were left and then inched back to his original position, back to all of them. Sleeping light was a must in the arena, and he didn't want to wake any of them. Not now.

He took out his knife and worked away at the arrowheads for a bit.

The task took more effort than he'd first thought, but eventually he got them loose. They weren't as good as rocks and he would probably cut himself at some point this evening, but it was all he had to work with, and something was better than nothing. Tully slipped them into his jacket pocket and tugged his slingshot out of his pants pocket. Good. Everything was easy to reach.

With quick, silent steps – not difficult to make on the soft sand – he crept over to where Troy was sleeping and laid the knife down by his head. He didn't have a weapon, so the knife would be better than nothing. For a moment, he thought about the possibility that Troy could return the knife to him – in his back – but he brushed it away. He was too quick for that.

Anyway, trust had to begin somewhere. If no-one took the first step, things would be much worse.

Then, he gripped his slingshot firmly, and set off to the Cornucopia.

He had no qualms about leaving them without a guard. The Careers were almost certainly still at the Cornucopia, most likely sleeping, and the other tributes could be easily fended off, even if you'd just woken up. And Hitch would probably wake up soon.

The purpose for his trip to the Cornucopia was two-fold.

Kill a Career – no matter how much he disliked and distrusted her, he didn't want to kill Livia. She was his district partner and he didn't want to have that on his conscience. Troy and Hitch showed no hesitation about killing their district partners, but that was them. Not him.

Reason number two was to get some supplies.

He doubted this one would pan out, since the other tributes would be on high alert once one of them fell, but he had to at least try. If he didn't have any supplies, he was dead. He didn't even consider the possibility that he had sponsors. No-one in their right mind would sponsor a scrawny tribute from District 12.

It took him a good while to reach the Cornucopia, and by the time he did, his arm was throbbing again. His shoulder gave him no problems anymore, but now he wished that he'd taken the medicine from Moffitt – although he probably wouldn't have been able to without waking at least one of them up.

Since he hadn't, all he could do was grit his teeth and forge on.

The twinges in his arm would make it harder for him to steady the slingshot, but not impossible. And at this point, he was almost ready to do the impossible if it meant succeeding.

There was a tall sand dune to one side of the Cornucopia, and he climbed it, always keeping his head low, body crouched down to the ground. When he reached the top, he lay down and watched the Career's camp. There was a small fire that sent flickering shadows against the gold of the Cornucopia. A single guard – one of the Career girls – sat beside it, warming herself. The others were nowhere to be seen. Probably sleeping inside the Cornucopia.

His muscles warmed as adrenaline began to pound through him. His heartbeat sped up a little, not out of the thrill of a kill, but because of the danger and the thought of what he was about to do. It sickened him a little, to know that in just a few seconds, the Career girl would be dead, because of him, but it was something that had to be done.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and fished one of the arrowheads out of his pocket.

As he shifted slightly to find a better position for the shot, sand fell from beneath him and skirted its way down the dune. It made a swishing, silky sound as it went down, barely noticeable, but the girl's head snapped up, her eyes searching, directed upwards, right at him.

He tensed and fought the urge to move. If he moved, she would spot him for sure. As it was, darkness was on his side, but barely. The sky was already beginning to lighten, and if he didn't hurry, the others might come looking for him. Her eyes passed right over him without a second glance, and he breathed out a sigh of relief.

Waiting a couple of minutes seemed like a good thing, since it would give her a chance to settle back down, but a few moments later, she got up from the fire and left, going into the Cornucopia. So he was right. They did sleep in there. It was a good protection from the elements and the metal would hold the warmth of the sun for a long time. She was probably just switching watch.

But the minutes dragged by, and she didn't come out.

He was just about to move in closer, risky as it could be, when she emerged again, followed by the three others in the pack. He recognized Livia and stomach clenched up. Just the sight of her made him uneasy, afraid. He didn't want to get close to her again.

They were too far off for his range, so he waited.

A moment later, they'd gathered up weapons, left the Cornucopia, and he'd missed his chance.

_Why did they go off so suddenly?_

Then he realized.

The Career girl had seen him. She'd gone inside to tell them, concoct a plan, and now they'd taken their weapons and gone on a hunt for him. His breath came faster and he felt like he might black out, but he fought the feeling. What was he doing, still lying there? They'd be on him in a moment.

He ran down the dune so fast that the last few steps were more like one continual slide.

Then, he took off, running across the desert, wishing for more cover instead of a flat, sandy, open plain, but there was nothing. Just sand and a couple of shrubs. He was only a few hundred yards from the Cornucopia when he heard them shouting. They'd seen him, spotted him, and he was as good as dead now.

No.

He refused to believe that.

Running, running, with one goal in mind. Get back to Troy and Hitch and Moffitt.

_They wanted to fight the Careers, I'm bringing them, they can fight them._

Explanations could come later.

As long as he kept a good head-start, they couldn't get him within range of their arrows and spears and axes. They had strength and numbers, but he had terror and a goal on his side. For them it was sport, for him it was life and death.

He glanced back once, saw he had a good margin on them, promptly dropped to one knee, and sent off an arrowhead. He wasn't sure of the aim, but he saw blood spurt on one of the girl Career's foreheads, and knew he'd got his shot. Even if it wasn't fatal, it would slow them down a bit. Confidence-no, something a little less, but still akin to assurance filled him as he ran. He'd make it back.

One other time, he sent off an arrowhead – his last one. It caught Livia in the left arm.

Then he was back up again, running as hard as he could even though his lungs burned and his legs ached and his mouth felt dry as an old piece of leather. _Only a few steps more. A few steps._ And then he skidded into the camp, shouting for everyone to wake up.

The Careers were on them.


	21. Careers Attack

Hitch was still fighting through a fog of sleep, but he grabbed up his two axes from beside him anyway. He slept light at the best of times, and in the arena, all he could usually manage was a good catnap or two. Axes in hand, he stood ready for an attack that he knew nothing about. Sleep was hastily blinked away from his eyes, but his mind was still hazy and the whole thing seemed like a very weird, very slow-moving dream.

Cold sand under his feet.

Sky that was an unearthly mix of light and dark.

Two heavy axes in his hands, his muscles not fully awake enough to grip them properly.

And Tully's voice, sounding like it was a mile away, shouting something about the Careers coming and they all needed to wake up. Hitch barely had his eyes open, but he wanted to throttle Tully. Why couldn't he just stop shouting the same thing over and over again and actually let them get some-

The Careers.

Were coming.

It took a few moments for the message to break through Hitch's mind, but once it did, he came fully awake. The Careers were coming – were probably already here – and he had to fight them off. Now he understood. He gritted his teeth, forced his hands to hold the axes properly, and followed Tully's pointing and shouting to where the Careers were barrelling towards them.

The Careers ran like mad toward them, one small group against one equally as small.

No. He blinked again, clearing bits of sand and sleep from his eyes. There were only three. One of the girls was gone – he couldn't tell if she was from his district or Troy's. It didn't really matter.

"Why are they here?" he heard Troy yell at Tully in the heat of hasty preparations. He saw Troy scoop up Tully's knife from the ground, but if he did that Tully didn't have the weapon. The slingshot was useless for hand-to-hand combat, which was what they were looking at, and he didn't have any rocks anyway.

Hitch called out to Tully and tossed him one of the axes. Tully fumbled but caught it without cutting himself all the same. Hitch nodded, smiling. He could work just as well with one axe as two, maybe better. When Tully had it okay, he asked, "Yeah, why are they here now? This wasn't supposed to happen for a couple of days."

It felt odd to be asking questions so casually when the Careers were only seconds away, but he didn't really feel nervous at all. He was ready to take them on, which was good, since the Careers were coming at them like a sandstorm. A small sandstorm, but an inconvenience anyway.

Brutus was shouting something unintelligible, waving his sword-knife above his head. The girl from District 12 – Hitch thought he remembered Tully calling her Livia – was screeching like his mom did when she saw a mouse. Only more terrifying. The Career girl was the only one not making any sound. She ran with her weapon ready, but her face was scared. She was from his district.

He swallowed hard and steeled himself. This wasn't the time or place to be going soft.

He re-gripped the axe, his eyes firmly on Brutus.

The two groups clashed with yells and the dull thud of bodies hitting each other.

After only a couple of seconds, the fighting split up into groups. Hitch had Brutus. Much larger, much older, but Hitch wasn't worried. Or if there was a secret place inside him that felt fear, he didn't show it, didn't give into it. He was a Career as well, he knew how they worked, and he knew that if you gave into fear, the fight would be over.

Brutus swung and slashed, but Hitch always tossed away the blows with his axe. The screeching sound of metal-on-metal made his skin tingle and chills ran up and down his spine.

The scene was spread out before him in crystal clear detail, in total contrast to when he'd first woken up. The sun was coming up, turning the sand from grey dust to glittering gold. Sand swished in dusty waves around the fighters. Tully was fighting Livia. Troy had the Career girl. Moffitt had his arrows ready, waiting for a good opening.

Their strategy – the stuff they'd discussed before – was working well. More than well. The only difference being that it was taking place out in the open, instead of at the Cornucopia. If they'd been at the Cornucopia, Moffitt would have been on top of it. But things were still working out as it stood.

Despite the danger around him, Hitch nearly smiled at the warm rush of pride that filled him. He took a jab at Brutus. His team was working together just as they'd planned. The alliance was working.

:::::

Livia's face was just inches away from Tully's.

Her eyes glared into at him, but she had a wild grin on her face.

"Bet your regretting all those choices now," she hissed, her grin never breaking.

He wasn't sure what exactly she meant – not joining him, joining up with Troy and the others, going to the Cornucopia on his own – but he didn't plan on letting her live long enough for him to find out. All his thoughts and arguments and qualms had been swept away by the real, immediate need to survive. He couldn't think of anything else.

They were locked in a stalemate, axe against knife, his free hand gripping her wrist. He couldn't break away and he wouldn't let her go either. He was terrified that if he let go, she'd have a knife in his guy before he could do anything. _Hurry, Moffitt. Just hurry._ All he could manage to do was hold her still until Moffitt came.

He bit down on his lip, looking everywhere except her eyes. If he looked into her eyes, he'd go insane as well.

The buzz of a loosed arrow broke through the tension-filled air that surrounded them. He was so wrapped up keeping her still and steady and _caught_ so that she couldn't stab him that he didn't immediately notice her facial features going slack, her own grip loosening. Her eyes were full of shock and rage and pain.

When he realized what was happening, he let go and she fell backwards to the ground.

A sweeping sense of sickness filled him. A roaring filled his ears, and his vision went blurry. She was still alive, but barely, and he bent down over her, his hands trembling. Moffitt had shot her in the back, probably saving his life in the process, and it wasn't as though he was sorry. She was a danger to everyone, not just him. But she was from 12, and0

Pain ripped through his chest.

Livia managed to raise her dying self up long enough to plunge the knife into his chest. As she fell back weakly, the blade ripped halfway down his torso and he cried out from the pain. Through vision that was swiftly turning black, he saw the knife fall from her hand and a blank stare take the place of her hate-filled expression.

Her cannon boomed.

He fell to his knees, collapsed face-first into the sand.

_Don't cry. Don't whimper or scream or curse the Capitol. They want a show. Don't give it to them._

As he thought, another cannon went off.

_I'm not dead. They can't take me away till I'm dead._

All he wanted to do was sleep and forget everything that had happened in the arena. His mouth was dry, it hurt to breath, and he felt worn-out as one of the older leather straps he used for a slingshot at home. Home...

His resolution to die with dignity was harder when he was actually dying, but it was the thought of home that kept him going. His mom was watching this. His brothers and sisters. He didn't want to make it worse for them than it already was. So he lay on the sand, took shallow breaths to lessen the pain of sending oxygen into his lungs, and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to see anymore killing today.

:::::

Moffitt ran over to Tully only moments after seeing him fall to the ground. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Troy kill the Career girl and Brutus running away from Hitch's raised axe, but none of it was important.

At the moment, Tully was important.

He hadn't seen exactly what had happened, but it was easy to guess. That girl Livia had played one last trick. Anger filled him. The whole thing was insane. Kids killing kids. He hadn't thought much about the wrongness of it all until now, but when a friend was dying right in front of your eyes, it put things in perspective, at least for him.

With a careful touch, he rolled the younger tribute over.

He shook his head, biting back a gasp, when he saw the wound. Livia had been dying when she made her attack, but it was deadly all the same. The ripped wound was deep and bloody and certainly painful. Far beyond his capabilities. Beyond anyone but the Capitol, most likely.

Hitch ran up and skidded to his knees in the sand right next to Tully. Troy was right behind him.

Tully's eyes were tightly closed, jaw clenched, entire body rigid from the pain.

Moffitt had never seen himself as helpless until now. At the moment, though, he felt the depth of his incapability, and it frightened him. He knew about medicine. He should be able to help Tully. But he couldn't and it both saddened and angered him. What good was he to the team, to anyone, if he couldn't patch up a wound?

He dug his fingers into the sand, beyond angry with himself and the Capitol.

"You can't fix him up, can you?" Hitch asked, and even in the middle of his anger and worry, Moffitt found a little sympathy in his heart for Hitch. He was only fifteen. His question was like that of a scared little boy worried about his...friend. Moffitt hesitated a moment, and then shook his head and laid a hand on Tully's shoulder.

He couldn't say any of the bland, 'comforting' words that people always said to the dying. Not at a time like this, not in the arena. Not to Tully. He couldn't have heard the words anyway. The cannon went off and Moffitt sat there, even if unspoken protocol demanded that he move for the hovercraft. He wasn't going to leave Tully there right away, letting some hovercraft crew who didn't even care take away his body.

Hitch stayed too.

Troy stood up and stalked away. Moffitt turned and watched him go. Fists clenched tightly, walk angry and purposeful, head low as if held down by some great weight. Moffitt was sure that Troy felt just as terribly about the whole thing as he and Hitch did. He looked back to Tully and then realized the futility of it. He could sit here for hours if he wanted, but that wouldn't bring him back.

The hovercraft crew would want to remove the body as soon as possible, but he didn't want to let it go. He'd tried to fight against becoming friendly with any of the tributes on his team, but it just hadn't worked. And now he was paying for it. Becoming attached to anyone in the arena was just an invitation for heartbreak.

And he'd fallen for it.

At least it made for a good show. That's all that mattered, wasn't it?

_Wasn't it?_

He knew his thoughts on the question, but if he lost control and started screaming out his thoughts in the arena, a mutt or fireball would be dispatched right away to get rid of him. Perhaps he shouldn't have cared, but he did. He did. Sorrow and rage filled him so full that he didn't know how he would continue on. Sorrow at losing friend. And anger against the people that would perpetrate this kind of thing.

He got to his feet and walked away. After a moment, Hitch followed.

He didn't look up when the hovercraft came, just kept walking.

_The Gamemakers got their wish. The wild card is out of the arena now._

Bitterness filled his mouth and he kicked away Livia's knife as hard as he could.


	22. Quiet Day, Quiet Night

Most of that day was spent organizing the supplies culled from the Cornucopia's bounty. There were several packs of supplies scattered around the mouth of the structure and it took them most of the day to go through each and every one, list what they had as best they could in their minds, and figure out where to go from there.

One thing was certain, they wouldn't be going hungry or thirsty or weaponless anymore.

They worked out a system after a few minutes of confusion. Troy and Hitch opened the backpacks and crates, laid out what was inside on the sand – always being careful of sand traps – and Moffitt memorized as much of the stuff as he could. His mind was sharp, and he was used to learning lists of words and such in school, so by the time everything was laid out, he had a good estimate of how many knives, canteens, and so on they had.

Three more cannons went off at varying times as the day progressed, keeping everyone's nerves on edge. Apparently, Brutus was on the prowl.

Even while Moffitt sorted and piled and bagged everything back into their respective containers, his mind was elsewhere. A tightness filled his chest, and he tried to keep all thoughts of bloodbath they'd all been a part of out his mind. If he didn't, he'd probably either go insane or kill someone. So, his thoughts turned to the other issue plaguing him.

Should he leave?

With Tully gone from the alliance, they were back to their original team – as much as he'd fit in with them and helped, Tully had been an extra in the equation. At least he'd started out that way, but Moffitt was almost positive that by the end, Hitch and Troy both considered him a valuable member of the group. He knew he did. Tully brought a steadiness, a quiet, to the whole team, and now that he was gone, well, things could get volatile.

None of them were good at making peace. If someone lost their temper – and from the set of Troy's jaw, that looked like it could happen sooner rather than later – everything could and probably would blow up in their faces. And he had to admit that the only reason he'd stuck around as long as he had was Tully. Even if they weren't from the same place, they both came from trodden-down districts, so a kind of sympathetic bond had been in play.

Now it was just him, the poor tribute from District 3, teamed up with two Careers.

He glanced over Troy and Hitch. Troy was tossing knives into a crate. They clanged and clashed against each other and Moffitt cringed at the sound. Troy's eyes were charged, with what exactly Moffitt couldn't tell – probably anger – and his movements were quick, frustrated. Either he had liked Tully more than he'd let on, or he was angry over losing a team member. Probably both.

Hitch was stacking the crates and backpacks on top of each other into small, precarious piles. He'd stop stacking just before one toppled over and start a new one. Moffitt was about to tell him to make the piles smaller, with a wider base of supplies, when he realized what Hitch was doing.

It was unlikely they'd need all that for a while, since they made sure to take out a day or two supply of food, water, and some new weapons. So Hitch was purposely stacking the supplies so they'd be wobbly, so anyone trying to steal something would have the whole thing topple over – thieves usually weren't too careful about taking something – and alert them, possibly even hurting the tribute.

"Good idea," Moffitt said.

Hitch glanced up. "What?"

"Stacking the supplies so any tribute who tries to take them will have a difficult time of it."

Hitch looked at him, puzzled. "I was just stacking them." He smiled a little. "But thanks anyway."

Moffitt couldn't see the boy as a threat. Sure, he'd killed a fair amount of tributes, but they'd all been enemies to the team. Not once had he made even a slightly threatening move toward any of his allies, and while that could be his whole strategy, Moffitt was almost positive he was sincere. Troy was harder to read, but for the time, Moffitt decided to stick it out. Brutus was still out there, somewhere, as well as a few other tributes. By tonight, they'd know how many more.

He would wait until the field was narrower, and then take his new backpack and leave.

Once that happened, it would be every man for himself.

:::::

Hitch warmed his hands over the fire.

It was good to feel that kind of heat again. He didn't like the sun's constant burning during the day, but he loved the warm crackle and hiss of flames, the dancing, quivering shadows they cast onto his hands and the sand, and the smell of burning wood.

Keeping his axe at the ready, he'd made a quick detour to the poison oasis near the Cornucopia, and hacked down some wood. Enough for a few minutes of fire at least. Evening was settling in now – the anthem and death toll would be playing soon – and the air was chilled, but he hadn't gotten the wood so much for warmth. The fire and wood and blanket around his shoulders...those were all comforting things.

He wouldn't have admitted it to either Troy or Moffitt, but at the moment, all he wanted was quiet and peace and safety. Security. The blanket wrapped around him like a warm embrace and the fire gave the illusion of calm. Sameness. At the moment, he would've welcomed a hug from his mom, not pushed it away like all guys were supposed to do.

He pulled his knees up under his chin and wrapped his arms around them.

Good enough, but it wasn't the same.

Already, the fire was beginning to die. Then Moffitt sat down beside him with another blanket and stirred the dying coals with one of his arrows. Hitch watched him quietly, tensed for a split second when Moffitt pulled a knife from his boot, and then relaxed when the older tribute started slicing up the blanket and tossing strips into the fire.

"We have plenty of blankets," Moffitt said. He didn't smile, but his expression was more relaxed than it had been all day. Hitch guessed that someone else wanted the warmth and safety of the fire as well. Because it was safety. Brutus had run off, a clear sign that he was scared of them, and the other tributes wouldn't dare attack their group. Not at night. So the fire was a symbol of their safety at the moment, their confidence in the fact that they could light a fire and get away with it.

A moment later, Troy walked over and hunched down, rubbing his hands over the fire that was now gathering life again, thanks to Moffitt's blanket. Then, he reached into his pocket – Hitch tensed up again but then told himself to stop acting like an idiot – and pulled out a tiny can. "What is it?" Hitch said. Troy tossed it across the fire to him and he caught it neatly.

"Coffee," he said. "You going to make some?"

Troy nodded. "We'll need some water. And one of those pots."

Hitch got up and brought them back in a moment. They'd left a few essentials outside of his precarious supply towers, all grouped beside the Cornucopia. He handed the canteen and pot to Troy and then settled back into his old place. There was nothing else to do, so he watched Troy, carefully measuring out both the water and the coffee and placing the pot to one side of the fire, not directly centered, but still within the heat.

"You know how to make coffee?" Moffitt said, mild surprise in his voice.

"Yeah," Troy said. "My dad hates it, so I take it when I can. I've made it like this a couple times."

All Hitch's mom usually had for breakfast was a huge cup of black coffee, so he was used to it. He usually dumped a bunch of sugar and cream into it, but since he hadn't seen either of those ingredients in the supplies, he'd have to be content with coffee his mom's way. It couldn't be all that bad, could it?

"No tea, I suppose," Moffitt said, after a pause.

Troy shook his head. "You've got it all in your head, haven't you?"

"Most of it, anyway."

"So I guess you like tea better?" Troy asked.

"Coffee's too expensive for us. Tea is much better. Just add a little hot water to some herbs and you're done." Moffitt was watching the brewing protest intently as well, and his expression showed a bit of distaste. "I've had coffee a few times though. Too strong for my liking."

"Well, it doesn't bother me," Troy said. "I like it strong."

Hitch was sure of that. Troy had dumped the entire can into the water – he assumed most of the ground would get strained off later with a spoon or something – and even though it was small, the coffee would probably be strong enough to knock out a mutt or two. He nearly smiled at the thought. But, then again, mutts were nothing to smile about.

The anthem soared through their conversation, effectively cutting it off.

As it played, the seal of Panem flashed in the night sky, and then the faces and district numbers of the dead tributes. The girls from 1, 2, 5, 6. Dietrich. The girl from 7. Livia. And Tully. So there were six left in the Games. Himself, Troy, Moffitt, Brutus, the girl from 8, and the boy from 11. The anthem faded out, and they were all left alone, to their depressed thoughts – any light conversation about coffee was finished for the time.

All three of them sat quietly, lost in thought – although Troy still checked the coffee periodically – until Troy said, "Coffee's ready."

Hitch stirred as if waking up. His thoughts had been full of Tully's death, when the alliance should end, and how the playing field had shrunk drastically. The Gamemakers would be throwing them together again soon. Probably tomorrow, or the day after, unless Brutus found the girl from 8 and the boy from 11 and gave the audience another good show.

Everything he thought about turned his stomach and set his nerves on edge, and he wasn't so sure he'd have some coffee. Troy used a knife to skim as many of the grounds off as he could, and then after protecting his hand with some of the torn up blanket, he grabbed one side of the pot and poured equal amounts of the rich liquid into three cups Hitch had found as well.

Hitch was handed one. He stared at him for a moment. Despite Troy's efforts, bits of grounds floated to the top, making the whole thing less than appetizing. But it was getting colder and his stomach grumbled a little bit, so he figured it was one of the better things he could do to warm and fill himself up.

Troy was already half-done his cup, despite the temperature, but Moffitt hadn't touched his.

"I think I'll pass," he finally said, handing his cup back to Troy, who accepted it without question.

After watching Troy drink a cup and a half – the rest he'd decided to sip leisurely – Hitch took his first sip. And promptly spat it out. After being used to creamed and sugared coffee at a lukewarm temperature, the hot, black kind attacked his taste buds and the little bit he swallowed scalded his throat and burned his tongue. He almost threw the cup back at Troy.

"How can you stand drinking that stuff?" he gasped out, hastily drinking down some water.

"What, don't you like it?" Troy asked.

Maybe it was from the nerves and tension, but Moffitt chuckled a little. Troy grinned, and even Hitch could feel a smile spreading across his face. The coffee was terrible, but he could put up with that. At the moment, he was just happy to be alive, enjoying the fire and the sparks of conversation that had started up.

And he pushed the thought of the nearing end of the Games far from his mind.


	23. More Mutts

The next day was almost peaceful.

Two more cannon shots floated through the air, hitting their ears, but it didn't rattle the group as much as the others that day had. The sounds were met more with a sense of resignation and fatality than surprise or grief. No-one was willing to bet that Brutus' death had been the cause of one of those cannons, which meant that it was now just him and them.

Ready for the final showdown, only he wouldn't want to come anywhere near him.

"They'll have to get us closer soon," Moffitt said.

"I think we should stay by the Cornucopia," Hitch said. "It's safest here."

Moffitt and Troy both nodded and Hitch was sure that they didn't want to leave the comfort – no matter how cold – of the Cornucopia. Besides being a good place to store all their new supplies, it offered both cover and elevation, two precious commodities in this particular arena. Taking Brutus out would be a piece of cake, but Hitch wasn't so sure he wanted that to happen.

Because when it did happen, once he was dead, there would only be the three of them left.

The Gamemakers wouldn't let them part ways and leave. For one, there were no other tributes to find and fight and kill. Plus, broken alliances fighting each other always made for a spell-binding, intensely interesting show-down. Hitch knew. He'd hoped for them in previous Hunger Games, because if that happened, the ending was always dramatic and exciting. Now that he was part of the show, dread and sickness filled him.

He couldn't think of a way to get past this. They would kill Brutus, eventually, and then the three of them would have to turn on each other. There was no other way. In fact, the Gamemakers had probably engineered the whole thing right from the start. He shook his head at the thought, but it still caught him. That was one problem with the arena. You started to believe crazy things. They couldn't have engineered things so perfectly.

Day was deepening into night once again. The air cooled off just a little, enough to take the edge off the blistering heats of the day, and Hitch reveled in the freedom from the insane temperatures. In just a little while, the coolness would drop to freezing, but for the moment, he enjoyed the cool air against his face and arms.

He sat a few feet away from the Cornucopia, aimlessly scooping up fistfuls of sand, letting the grains run through his fingers, and then repeated the motions over and over again. His thoughts were far away – on the hole that Tully had left, in their team and in himself, on the alliance that could crack at any moment, and on Brutus.

To his left, even further away, Moffitt was kneeling in the sand, bent over a small fire, brewing up some tea. Hitch had asked a sponsor for a couple of tea bags – in the grand scheme of things, they wouldn't be too expensive, especially since they couldn't be used for a weapon – and then presented them to Moffitt. He'd been thrilled and even now, even with all the pressures weighing down on him, Hitch grinned at the memory.

Troy tromped over and squatted down beside him.

"Night's coming in fast," he said, staring toward the poison oasis.

Hitch nodded.

"I can take first watch," Troy said.

"Thanks." Suddenly, Hitch could barely suppress a yawn and he realized how much the sleepless nights and tense days were catching up on him. All it had taken was a slight suggestion of rest to send him over the barrier between wakefulness and sleep.

He got up and walked back to the Cornucopia to retrieve a couple of blankets. When he got back to Moffitt, Troy was already on top of the Cornucopia, weapons beside him. Hitch handed a blanket to Moffitt. "How's the tea?" he asked, seeing that Moffitt was done brewing it, had it in a cup that he held carefully.

Moffitt smiled. "Excellent. Thank you."

"Troy's taking first watch," Hitch said. "We should probably get some sleep before he falls over."

"Right."

Hitch settled into the sand a little ways away. He'd tried sleeping in the Cornucopia once, but he'd quickly given up on that idea. After so much time spent sleeping in the open sand fields with sky above him, the Cornucopia felt cramped, dangerous, and depressing. He'd have more freedom of movement outside it, and if an emergency prompted him to get up, he'd have a clearer line of vision.

So he continued to sleep outside, on the sand – not burrowed underneath, since he now had all the blankets he could ever use. Moffitt also slept outdoors, although Hitch didn't know whether it was for the same reasons he did, or entirely different ones. Either way, he was glad of the company.

It took just a few moments to fall asleep.

Seconds, only seconds had passed before he was jolted awake.

At least that's what it felt like.

Hitch bolted upright, not sure why he was awake, what had woken him. And then he recalled the yell he'd heard and suddenly, clear as crystal, Troy was shouting in his ear – no, not exactly in his ear, he was still a distance away, on the Cornucopia – that they were being attacked by snake mutts and-

Mutts.

Snakes.

Before he knew what was happening, Hitch was off and running for the Cornucopia as fast as he could.

Then he skidded to a halt, his mind and body and heart all frantically moving in different directions.

Moffitt. Where was Moffitt?

As he turned back around to try and catch a glimpse of him, the ground just a few yards away seemed to explode. "Moffitt! Wake up! Get up! They're snake mutts!" He saw Moffitt now, saw him scramble to his feet and take off running as well as the mutts writhed up out of the ground and slithered after both of them.

Now that he knew Moffitt was awake, Hitch ran in earnest.

As his feet pounding, striking the ground, slipping this way and that in the sand, his thoughts were consumed with the quick glimpses and flashes he'd seen of the snake mutts. Long, thick, wriggling bodies, an evil, sickly green in colour. Red, demonic eyes. Everything designed and determined to strike terror in tribute's hearts.

He reached the Cornucopia and frantically grabbed onto the first handhold he saw. He was nearly hyperventilating, didn't have a thought in his head except staying out of the mutts' clutches. Nothing else was important. Panic gripped him and his sweaty hands slipped on the metal and Troy was running toward him on the top of the Cornucopia, trying to pull him up but he wouldn't get there in time.

The mutts would be there in a second. Black spots dotted his vision.

He'd be pulled down by those terrifying creatures.

Then, something – or something – got hold of his feet and heaved him up onto the Cornucopia so hard and so fast that his face smacked the metal surface and stars blinked in and out of his eyesight. His nose hurt terribly – maybe even broken – and a trickle – no, a gushing – of blood ran from it. But all that was the least of his worries.

Whirling around, he was just in time to see Moffitt, his hand on one of the Cornucopia's ridged edges, being yanked back down by the snake mutts. Viciously pulled to the ground and attacked, the creatures pumping him full of venom. It was only seconds till his cannon boomed.

Hitch fell to his knees, trembling violently all over.

Troy was beside him. The snake mutts dispersed just as quickly as they'd come. A hovercraft appeared and took away Moffitt's body, so disfigured with the bites and poison that it was barely recognizable. The whole thing was all over so fast, and everything was so dark, that Hitch wasn't even sure it had all happened. It was a dream, wasn't it? That kind of thing couldn't happen so quickly.

Except in the arena.

Hitch crumpled onto the still-warm surface of the Cornucopia. He wanted to cry. Only minutes before, it seemed, he and Moffitt had been talking about coffee and tea and whether or not they should get some sleep. And now he was gone, dead by mutts – the enemy he'd fought off before – and there were only three of them left. Him and Troy and Brutus. He couldn't think of killing Troy. He didn't want to think of killing anyone anymore.

No-one in the Capitol would understand him. Understand the feelings that ran rampant inside him.

Pleasing them and playing to their every whim didn't seem so important anymore.

It never should have been important to him. He knew that now.

The anthem came and went, Hitch didn't look up. He stayed curled up in a ball on the top of the Cornucopia, even as the surface became increasingly frigid. Eyes squeezed tight, body hunched against the wind, against the stares of the Capitol audience, and against his own feelings.

No-one would understand his grief over Moffitt's death. Yes, they'd been allies, but he was a Career. He wasn't supposed to care when his allies got cut down. Just one step closer to the victor's crown, wasn't it?

But now he realized that the crown and the adoration of hundreds of fans didn't matter to him anymore. He would've given up all of it just to have Moffitt and Tully and Troy safe and sound and for them to be friends, real friends. Not in the arena, but back in the districts. Being able to joke around and share stories and eat snacks together without constantly looking over their shoulder, or being constantly afraid.

He wanted everything to be normal.

And since it wasn't, he shut it all out.


	24. Water

Streaks of pale pink filtered through the clouds.

Dawn was here, and for the first time in hours, Hitch finally moved from his cramped position. His entire body was stiff and cold. _Like a corpse,_ he thought, but pushed the idea away. There would be time for regret and remorse and grief later, when he was out of the arena – although with two other Careers left, his hope of that was fading – but now he needed to push through whatever he was feeling and stay alive.

He stood up, stretching his arms, arching his back, yawning.

Once he'd worked the worst stiffness out, he looked around for Troy. He was down on the ground, right beside the Cornucopia, sitting over a small fire, a pot full of bubbling coffee on the flames. No tea.

With a pause to steel himself, Hitch dropped off the Cornucopia. He wasn't sure he could climb down without slipping and falling, so it was better to fall when he was in control of the situation. He landed beside Troy, legs momentarily crumbling beneath him, a puff of sand spraying off. "You got sand in the coffee," Troy said.

Hitch pulled himself up. "Sorry."

Troy didn't look up, just kept focused on the seething, boiling mixture. Two metal cups sat beside him on the sand, along with a spoon. Hitch stayed by the fire just because of its warmth in the early morning chill, not because he wanted any coffee, but once he'd strained off most of the grounds, Troy handed him a cup. Hitch stared down at the dark brown liquid that still shook and rippled from being poured.

All he could think of was how last time they drank coffee, Moffitt had been with them.

Small, even silly as it was, he didn't think he deserved coffee. Or anything else, for that matter. Moffitt had been right behind him. He should've helped him up, he should've waited until he knew they'd both make to the Cornucopia. He should've-

Hitch shook his head.

_Not now. Later. You don't have any time for that right now._

"We need to figure out what we're doing from here on out," Troy said, finally looking at Hitch.

Hitch cupped his hands around the mug and shivered a little. The heat was comforting.

"What do you mean?"

Troy sighed and poked at the fire with the spoon, bringing the coals back to life again, if only for a short time. "Do we split up now?" he said. "We can break up peacefully, no fighting, no mess. Moffitt and Tully-Moffitt and Tully aren't here anymore. Our alliance is almost gone. What do you think?"

From the way he said it, Hitch wasn't so sure he wanted to split up, which relieved him, since that fit with his thoughts. Despite what came after, he didn't want to break the alliance just yet. Still, he was appreciative of the fact that Troy had asked him, had laid it all out with no deception. It was better than the plan he'd had of sneaking off in the middle of the night.

"No," he said, clearing his throat. "We should stick together. There's only three of us left – right?" He looked to Troy for confirmation, since he hadn't watched the death toll the other night. Troy nodded. "Even if we split up now, they'd draw us all back together for the finale. I don't want us to be enemies like that." He didn't say anything about the fact that if they killed Brutus, they'd be enemies. They both knew without hearing it out loud.

Troy nodded. "Fine, that's what we'll do." And they finished their coffee in silence.

They'd hardly finished when a low rumbling sound came from only a few feet away from them. Without even thinking, Hitch sprang up and started climbing the Cornucopia. Troy was right behind him. Maybe they wouldn't be able to stay safe on the Cornucopia against whatever new toy the Gamemakers were sending out, but it was better than being on the ground, vulnerable.

On the Cornucopia, safe, they watched as the ground split open a little.

Hitch knew it would be more mutts. _Isn't that getting a little old, Gamemakers?_

But it wasn't mutts. It was water. The two of them stayed on the Cornucopia for a good twenty minutes, watching the water, sure that it would expand and start a flood of some kind, but when it didn't grow any wider – just started running around the Cornucopia in a wide circle, they knew it was something different.

"We've got plenty of water," Hitch said.

Now the water formed a ring around the Cornucopia. There was still a wide belt of sand between the water and the metal structure, so Hitch and Troy cautiously made their way down. The water stayed where it was, flowing softly around and around, fed by a Gamemaker invention, no doubt.

After a few moments, Troy went right up to the water's edge, dipped a finger in, and tasted the liquid.

"It's fresh," he said. "Clean."

"Doesn't make any sense," Hitch said. "Why would they do this?"

Then the reason hit him.

"They've dried up everything else."


	25. Grand Finale

They made a quick hike to the waterhole that Moffitt had short-circuited, just in case they were wrong about the Gamemakers drying up all the water. Hitch was certain that they weren't, and he was sure that Troy felt the same way. He'd seen a similar trick – or one exactly the same – used in previous arenas to bring the remaining tributes together for the showdown. Only out here, in the desert, it was even more effective than usual.

Sure enough, when they reached the waterhole, it was dusty and dry. In fact, there was no evidence that water had ever touched the slightly indented surface. There was no sign of Moffitt's handiwork – the wires – anywhere either. They could've drained the water at any time, and it was probably only Moffitt's ingenuity that had impressed them enough to let the short-circuit stand.

But all that was over now, and they needed to get back to the Corncucopia.

"Let's get back," he said. Then he stopped. "Do you think we should go after him?" The thought filled him with a momentary rush of adrenaline. Hunting Brutus out, going along with the final showdown on their terms, not waiting for him to come to them, staying of offensive. Not defensive. But Troy shook his head.

"We don't know where he is. We could spend days looking. Even if the Gamemakers pushed us together right away, we have better supplies at the Cornucopia, not to mention cover." He started trudging back. "We should stick with what we know. There could be anything out there."

Hitch knew that was true, but he was pretty sure that the Gamemakers wouldn't take any of them out with snakes or sandpits at this critical moment in the Games. The Capitol audience was sure to be eager, bloodthirsty, and waiting for the great, bloody showdown and if the Gamemakers didn't deliver on their yearly promise of a good show, they could be killed just as easily as the tributes themselves.

Still, he went along with Troy. He didn't want to upset the delicate balance of their teamwork, especially now.

They approached the Cornucopia cautiously, just in case Brutus had already made his way there, but found nothing. The inside of the Cornucopia yawned, golden and empty, supplies stacked all around it. The water spring still flowed in a thin circle around the structure. Hitch knelt down next to the water, axes banging against each other at the movement, and took a long drink.

He stood up and turned around.

"I think we should-"

The words died on his lips and the next instant, one of his axes was in his hand, poised, ready to be thrown. A few feet away stood Brutus, his right arm wrapped around Troy's neck, his other hand occupied with a long, lethal sword-knife.

Hitch knew he was just as good with the left hand when it came to weapons as he was with the right.

_How on earth-?_

Brutus must have buried himself in the sand, or hid behind a dune.

"Let him go, Brutus," he said, although he knew the words were straw to the tribute. It didn't matter. He had to say something, and that was the only thing he could think of. "Let him go, or I'll throw this axe right in your face." His hand trembled, but not from fear. He was holding the handle so tightly he briefly wondered if he'd be able to let it go.

"No, I'll kill him first," Brutus said. "Anyway, if you kill me, there's a good chance his throat will get slit as well." He grinned, and worry flickered inside Hitch. He was right. The angle of the blade, the way Brutus had his arm around Troy...the knife would drag across Troy's neck when Brutus fell.

Just like with Tully.

Troy's face wasn't frightened so much as angry. He wasn't struggling against Brutus, not because he wouldn't, but because he couldn't. Brutus wasn't holding him tightly enough to strangle him, but Hitch kept a wary eye on his arm. He was certain that Brutus had the power to do just that, he probably wouldn't realize for a few seconds, and that would give Brutus time to bury the knife in his chest.

He kept his eye alternately on Brutus' face and his arm – waiting for the least bit of muscle flexing that would most likely mean Troy's death – but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Troy's hand snaking down toward his pant leg. What was he doing?

Whatever it was, Hitch guessed that he needed Brutus distracted.

So, he began talking.

"I'll bet you've had a lot of fun these past few days," Hitch said, not even trying to keep the loathing out of his voice. "All the dead tributes. And didn't you kill one of your own pack?"

It was a wild guess, based on the missing District 2 girl in the Careers' attack on their camp, the fact that she'd been with the Careers only a couple of days ago, and Brutus own explosive temper. But Brutus flinched, ever so slightly, and Hitch knew he'd been right in his guess. "That usually doesn't happen till the end of the Games, right?"

"This is the end," Brutus said, glaring at him.

At that instant, Troy twisted backwards as hard as he could and plunged a knife into Brutus' stomach. Hitch threw an axe at the same time, catching Brutus in the forehead, ending his life right there. But it didn't end his killing ability, because as he fell, his own knife caught Troy in the back of the neck, slicing a huge gash.

Troy twisted away, blood streaming down his back now.

Hitch caught him when he fell, laid him out on the sand, thought better of it, ran back to the Cornucopia, snatched up a blanket, ran back, and made Troy as comfortable as he could be lying face-down. Then Hitch examined the wound. There was nothing he could do about it. He wasn't a healer like Moffitt.

"I can't-I can't do anything," he said. "I'm sorry."

Troy was growing paler by the second as the blood visibly drained out of him.

This was where the audience would expect him to put an axe in Troy, giving the Capitol as much blood and gore as they wanted, and catapulting him into the victor's position, but that was the last thing was going to do. He washed away the blood from Troy's neck, although more came every minute and he could do nothing for the bloodstained shirt.

And then the cannon sounded for the last time.

Hitch stood up. He'd imagined this moment, this moment where he became the victor, a million different ways when he was at the Reaping, training, the interview, and in the first few days of the Games. Each time, his imaginings had come with a sense of triumph, honour, even happiness. But he felt nothing of that now.

He'd gone along with what the Capitol wanted, done everything right, played to the audience, and while it had gotten him his original goal – victory and a place as the most famous citizen in Panem for a time – he'd lost three good allies. Three good friends. None of the adoration of the freaks back in the Capitol could make up for that.

Stepping away from the body, he closed his eyes, wished Tully, Moffitt, and especially Troy a silent goodbye, and then felt the wind from the hovercraft beating down on him. It wasn't the hovercraft that would take him back to the Capitol. Troy's hovercraft. The one that would take him back to District 2. He wondered what kind of family he'd had, if any. They'd saved each other's life more than once, but he knew next to nothing about any of his allies.

In some ways, that was better, but he still wished he did know something.

Then, once the hovercraft had disappeared, the voice of Games announcer, Claudius Templesmith, filled the arena, echoed through it, with the words, "Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to pronounce Mark Hitchcock the winner of the sixty-sixth Hunger Games!" Through invisible speakers, they played the audience's reaction, cheering and whistling, but he ignored it all.

Numbness filled him.

The hovercraft appeared and pulled him up through a freezing air current.

It was over.


	26. Recap

Hitch sat in the victor's chair, Caesar only a few inches away.

This time on the stage was so different from the last time that he didn't even think of comparing the two. Then, he'd been young, eager, ready to take on the Games. Now, he felt ten years older, drained, heartsick, and ready to go home. That was all he could think about. Home. Not the Victory Tour six months from now. Not having to mentor two new tributes a year from now.

He'd stuck a wide smile on his face when he was led onto the stage, and it was firmly in place now. He was determined not to relax his expression until he was safely in the dark, shadowy corners of his room in the Training Centre. Spending two nights there in prep for the televised recap of the Hunger Games had already been a nightmare, since it sent memories of everything he wanted to forget rushing to the forefront of his mind, but now he wanted to be back there.

Anywhere but on the stage, getting ready to watch all his friends die again.

The lights flashed on, dancing all around him and Caesar, and then the audience saw both of them, smiles firmly in place – although Hitch was sure that Caesar's wasn't faked – ready to watch the Games all over again with seeming enjoyment. Hitch hated every bit of it. Maybe once he'd enjoyed the screams of the crowd, but now they meant nothing to him.

He heard Caesar introduce him and stood up automatically to make a bow. Then he sat back down and steeled himself for the next three hours – the standard length of the recap. He let his smile relax a bit, as was fitting, but still kept a hint of it. If he didn't, he'd start glaring or crying and he didn't know which was worse. So he stayed as calm as he could.

For the first half hour or so of the recap, he was able to mostly ignore the program, even if he kept his eyes on the screen. It was easy enough. Reapings, the parade, training, and final interviews. When the Games started, though, he couldn't look away. Couldn't tune it out. He saw the tense alliance form, Moffitt and Tully's encounter with the mutts, Brutus killing the girl tribute from District 1 – along with a whole slew of other tributes – and, of course, every single tribute death, played out in full.

Most of the focus was on him, but every tribute got their share as well. He noticed that besides helping with the mutts and his death, Dietrich was never shown. Not even when he cut the tracker out of Tully's arm which, considering the blood, tension, and the fact that that was how Tully had joined their team, was surprising. He didn't dwell on it long, though. Tried to cut his mind out, distance himself as far as possible from the figures moving onscreen.

And then it was over, and he was breathing a sigh of relief and Caesar was telling everyone to tune in tomorrow afternoon for the live interview with the victor. Hitch was sure that the interview would be easy, compared what he'd just gone through in the last three hours. Reliving every moment of his time in the arena, or so it seemed, had been nothing he could prepare for.

The interview, he could prepare for.


	27. Victor Interview

Hitch only had to walk down the hall from his room a couple doorways to where the interview would take place. Caesar had said that he wanted everything as natural as possible, and although Hitch would've felt much more natural not being interviewed at all, he had to admit that the Training Centre was a bit more familiar than a cold studio would've been.

Not like he was grateful to Caesar, or anything.

As he entered the room, it hit him that he'd have to play to the audience again. He'd have to show them his winning, cheerful, cocky side. A side which he no longer felt, wasn't even sure existed anymore. It didn't matter, though. He'd created a persona for himself, and he had to keep it up or the audience would be dissatisfied. Angry, even.

He didn't care what they thought about him – not much, anyway – but he was already thinking ahead to the tributes he'd have to mentor the next year and every year after that. If the Capitol audience hated him, he wouldn't be able to help those tributes as much. Even if Careers could take care of themselves for the most part, they still needed a mentor to organize the sponsor gifts.

So he would be just as charming as he could.

No. There was no 'could' in the Hunger Games. He _would_ be charming.

"Ah, Hitch," Caesar said, obviously remembering what Hitch had told him in their last interview. "Ready for you interview? I promise I'll keep it short," he added, grinning. Hitch smiled and nodded, although Caesar was lying through his Capitol-enhanced teeth. Victor interviews usually lasted an hour or more, unless the victor became incredibly distraught. And that wasn't an option for him.

"Ready as I'll ever be," he said, then bit his tongue. It was such a clichéd phrase. He'd have to do better if he was going to impress the Capitol. "When do we start?"

Caesar smiled even wider. "Right now, if you don't mind."

Hitch shook his head.

"Excellent."

Caesar led him over to the same chair he'd sat in last night. It had been placed in front of a plain, dark green backdrop and cameras were positioned around it at every possible angle. Hitch wasn't sure what to make of all the cameras, but he guessed it was better than having a live audience in the room. Caesar didn't really count.

Without further ado, Caesar gave the signal and plunged right into the interview.

"So, Hitch, the one question that's been burning in my mind since you entered the arena is why didn't you team up with the other Careers? I'm sure you had your reasons, but would you care to share them?" Caesar asked, hands on his knees, the picture of professionalism.

Hitch cleared his throat. "I did have my reasons. Some of the Careers this year were a little off mentally, I believe," he said, thinking of Brutus. "I probably would've teamed up, but then when I got there and saw what I was up against, I decided to make my own team. Why should I play by their rules when I can make my own, you know?"

_Good_, he thought. _There's the cocky kid they all know._

Caesar laughed. "You're right! I never thought of that, but I'm certainly glad you gave us something unique this year. It's not often we see a Career breaking away from the pack, so to speak. I must say, though, that you made up an excellent team. Can you tell us a little bit about why you chose the allies that you did?"

Hitch knew that questions about the alliance would come up, but the question still hit him hard. He didn't want to let Caesar, and the Capitol in general, see into his mind and heart, so he resolved to keep his answers as brief and concise as possible. "Troy was another Career. I liked his fighting style, and I thought we'd make a good team. I'd wanted Tully for a while, but it wasn't until we found him at the oasis that I was able to get him in with us. Moffitt was sort of a last minute decision, but when I saw his training score, I knew I wanted him."

_Stay confident, on top of things. Whatever he asks, make it seem like you were in charge of everything._

Caesar nodded.

The questions went on, ranging from his survival techniques in the arena, to his adoring fans and sponsors, and his plans for when he returned home. Hitch tried to keep the tone light, but the deeper he went into the interview, the harder it was to keep his voice cheerful and confident. All he wanted was to be done with the whole thing, forever. Starting with the interview.

Even if it was bad manners, he kept sneaking a look at the clock on the wall.

Nearly an hour and a half had passed, before Caesar finally said, "And, lastly, Hitch, I wanted to ask you...was there ever a moment when he thought you might not win? Or were you always confident?" The smile on his face showed that he was sure that Hitch had never had any doubts.

The thing was, Hitch agreed with him.

Maybe he'd had a couple flickering doubts here and there, but at the moment, he couldn't remember any of them. When he'd made the alliance, when he'd fought off Brutus, heard about the mutts, and dragged Troy out of the sand trap, he'd never had any doubts. He'd always been sure that he would win. So he nodded, and said, "No. I think I always knew I'd make it. I mean, why wouldn't I?" He grinned, although it was the last thing he felt like doing, and the interview ended with a close-up on his face.

Yes, he'd won. But now he almost wished that he hadn't.


	28. Going Home

The train whizzed along the track, speeding toward District 1.

Hitch sat in the very last car, watching the trees, bushes, and lush vegetation shoot past him in the blink of an eye. So very different from the arena. He swallowed down a lump in his throat that insisted on reasserting itself every few minutes, and kept his eyes on the scenery outside.

In just a couple hours, according to the train schedule, he'd be in District 1 where most of the population would be waiting for him with open arms. His mom, his dad, everyone who was anyone. Maybe he'd be able to get away from the crowd after a few moments of waving, but he didn't think so. District 1 was over-the-top when it came to victor celebrations.

There would be countless hands to shake, lots of smiling, waving, bowing.

He dreaded it.

When he got home, he'd try to forget. Bury himself in studying, sports, activities, anything he could lay his hands on or put his mind to. He'd already determined that he wouldn't turn to drugs or alcohol to take away his memories of the Games – he still had no respect for victors who did that – so he would have to keep himself so busy that he had no time for thought.

Nightmares would come, so the nights would the worst, but he still had his family.

Maybe he could reconnect with his dad, figure out some sort of control compromise with his mom – he was a victor now, after all – and things wouldn't be so bad. Between mentoring in the Games, he would forget. He would make it work. The Victory Tour was only a couple of weeks, and then he never have to celebrate his kills again.

Time would take away some stings.

He'd never forget Tully and Moffitt and Troy, but maybe in time, the ache and guilt he felt over their deaths would lessen. Maybe.

And then he'd learn how to survive once again.


End file.
